Vampire: the Masquerade - Toronto Chronicles
by Gideon Jones
Summary: Patricia Brosnen is an unbreakable, if fractured soul. The world of the Kindred, and their politics, is new to her. She is thrown head first into the middle of it, caught between the power players of Toronto. Death, hunger, and greed all play their parts in her new unlife. But all is not as it seems, as conspiracy takes hold of the city, and throws it into chaos.
1. 1 - In the Assylum

"You know you can't keep running away from reality like this, Patricia."

"Watch me."

In the darkness, a woman struggled inside of her straight-jacket. The bars cast long, thin shadows on the floor, and measly cot laid out for her cell. Sitting relaxed in the corner of the cell, was a man. He was tall, balding, with glasses on a chain. His beard was kept nearly trimmed, and the lines of his suit were crisp and clean. He peered over the notes he kept on his pad of yellow legal paper. His pen had the name of some drug company on it. Clipped to his breast pocket was a plastic laminated badge which boldly declared him to be a visitor.

"Patricia," he began again. His voice was exasperated, but with a very practiced patience. "At some point you're going to have to make a decision. Do the thing that's hard, or give up entirely. Patricia, can you hear me?"

From the floor, Patrica ignored him. She looked more like a feral animal than a human being. The grime on the floor had left its mark on her hair, her skin, and her straight jacket. Her hair fell in locks like algae, blocking her vision and sticking to her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut as the man sitting above her in the only clean thin in her cell continued to talk. She squeezed them tighter, his words gradually fading into nothing but a dull buzz in the background.

There was a sound, like the rushing of blood in her ears, or the rushing of waves of a beach. She focused on it, chasing whatever thoughts and reprieve it brought her. The whipping of a leafy branch as it swing back towards her face. It didn't matter what it was.

Then, suddenly, and without warning, she came to. Her eyes snapped open. For a moment, she looked around frantically, still caught by the lingering blindness of unconsciousness. Voices were talking in the background, but they were muted and slow.

Her cheek brushed against soft carpet. She sniffed as her vision started to return. It was clean. The pattern was restrained, and tasteful. Her eyes traveled along the floor she found herself laying on. They made it to a window. She was in a building, with full wall windows.

She was in a skyscraper.

She started to pull herself to a sitting position, but stopped short at a stinging sensation in her neck. She clapped down on it with a wince. The voices were easier to hear now. A man. Frantically pleading. Another man... he only interjected occasionally. Not quite monosyllabic, but close. And cool. She still couldn't tell what they were saying.

She withdrew her hand from her neck. There was blood. In two distinct and separate rivets.

"I beg absolutely nothing of you but your clemency!" the frantic voice continued, unacknowledging of Patricia's recovery. "Anything, sir. I brought this matter to your attention immediately. My deepest regrets. Of course my sire and I will handle this problem however you direct, whether by taking in the fledgling to our clan, or by elim-"

A waves of inky black darkness washed over the entire room, blotting out the stars, the lights of the city, and everything but the velvety shroud of shadow. The frantic voice stopped, and Patricia heard the sound of gurgling. And choking. She held stock still. The sound persisted for a long, tense moment. Then, abruptly, it ended in what sounded like a sack of flour exploding.

For exactly eight seconds, there was no sound in the room at all. She trembled, and held her breath.

Finally, Patricia turned to face where the voices had come from.

Two men were watching her intently. The first was tall man. He would be described as lanky, had he not been possessed of a delicate grace. Patricia could think of no better word for him than 'elongated.' His face was long, with a hook-shaped nose, hollows under his cheek bones, haughtily arched eyebrows, deep set sneering black eyes, and a meticulously groom goatee. His black hair was slicked back,and shined like obsidian. His suit was formal, if a bit anachronistic; coat tails, a cravat, lace ruffles coming out of the sleeves. He wore several rings, all of which were over-sized, and made unmistakably out of high karat gold. He was seated with one leg draped artlessly over the other, peering at her from behind his steepled fingers

The other man looked no more like he fit the frantic voice than the first. He, too, was tall. Actually taller than the rat faced man. But he was broader in the shoulders. He had a strong jaw, tousled red hair he seemed to have tried to master for the evening. His hands were thrust into his pockets, disturbing the lines of his slacks. Though they were so worn that they didn't suffer from it too much. He had a grey blazer on over an oil-stained t-shirt. He was leaning in the corner, watching her with some mixture of amusement, interest, and pity.

On the floor next to her, where the frantic voice had spoken, and where the gurgling had been heard, there was a pile of slightly moist dust, and a puddle of dark, dark red blood.

Patricia swallowed, and tried to piece together anything that gave this moment context.

The seated man shrugged, and turned to his compatriot.

"Caldur?" he began. Patricia didn't give him time to finish.

She bowed. Full on prostrated herself. Hands on the floor, forehead too. Her messy pony-tail spilled just a little into the blood in front of her. It didn't matter. There was already blood on her cheap beige suit.

The seated man stopped in his tracks, his whole self still lolling in the midst of a gesture towards the standing man. His mouth quirked in a smile.

"My. And what possessed you to do that?" he asked. His voice was educated. Clean, eloquent, and enunciated. It was vaguely aristocratic somehow, and hinted that he was from somewhere in Europe. After another pause, he chuckled, and readjusted himself into his seat. "You may speak, little one."

Again, Patricia swallowed. She cleared her throat, but made no move to get up. For a moment, she was in her cell again. The man with the legal paper was standing up, and a guard was taking the only clean chair out as they both left her. Alone. On the floor of a cell. In a straight-jacket.

"I have no idea what's going on," she said, once again in the room of whatever skyscraper. "I don't know who that man was. He came to visit me at work tonight, and I woke up here. Whatever you just did to him, I don't care. I don't care at all."

"That man was your Sire, little one," the long man informed her.

"Will you let me live long enough that it would matter if I asked what that meant?"

The man looked like he was caught flat-footed by that response. The other one, referred to as Caldur, stifled a chuckle and looked away.

"You're something of a... unique case," admitted the long one. "I would be well within my rights to give you the final death right here and now. You were not permitted in my city. Tell me why I shouldn't."

"I have no idea what any of this is, or what rights you mean. But," said Patricia, still nose deep in mist dust and blood. Her eyes were fixed in a gold molar which was sitting in the pile. "I'm obviously far out of my depth, because up until a moment ago I had no idea men could turn into whatever it is that I'm currently bowing in," she said, resisting the urge to gag.

"You may stand, no one ordered you to bow."

"Thank you," said Patricia. She stood up, and dusted herself off. Her body was strung taught with tension. She could practically have been used as a bow string. But she forced herself to stare the seated man directly in the eye. There were five sconces set artfully into the wall behind him.

For a moment, she was in the cell, the former image replaced by the man with the visitor's badge, and four caged lightbulbs casting the long shadows of her cage.

She shook herself, blinking frantically, and forcing her mind to look at the lights. The chair. The man wearing a cravat who was sitting in front of her with growing impatience.

"I have no idea where I am, why I'm here, who that man was, who you are, or what just happened. But I owe him no allegiance, and I'm under no illusion that I'm going to make it out of this room alive without your approval. So I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get that approval," said Patricia. The words happened because they had to. They didn't come out eloquently or clean. They didn't come out rehearsed or pretty. They didn't even come off that persuasively. They came out because that's all Patricia could think to do to fight for her very survival at this moment in time.

The man smiled.

"You're not making it out of this room alive," he said. He shrugged. "But if you're useful to me, I will extend you the unique generosity of my protection. Caldur?"

"Yeah?"

"See that miss Brosnen has everything she needs," he continued. Patricia's face twitched in confusion when he said her surname, but she remained otherwise still, not so much as moving from the pile of gore. "I will be taking her on as a Ward."

"Risky move," warned Caldur, though he didn't seem to be trying to talk the other man out of it. "Ernesto's going to make this ugly."

"Ernesto is welcome to make such an attempt," said the long man, rising from his seat. He moved with a flourish that seemed to come naturally to him. "The fact of the matter remains, he could not control his Childe, and I had to uphold the law."

"You know that's not the part I'm talking about," replied Caldur.

"I do," was the only response before he left the room through one of the rear doors.

Caldur sighed, and shook his head. Patricia was still watching, like a prey animal hoping the predators won't notice it. Caldur noticed her, though, and looked at her with a wry sort of smile. The mixture of emotions hadn't changed. Amusement, interest, and pity. The only difference was the intensity. He was more amused, more interested, and definitely more pitying.

"Well, miss Brosnen," he said. "I'm Caldur."

"Patricia," she answered vaguely. "How did he know my name?"

"He said you were a special case."

"Who...?"

"That was Sebastian. He's the Prince of Toronto."

Blink.

Blink, blink.

Blink.

"Oh." Because really, what else do you say to a thing like that?


	2. 2 - Weird Stuff to Cover

Patricia found the first excuse for solitude she could latch onto. As Caldur had been leading her down the hallway, she excused herself to the restroom. He looked a little uncomfortable, but there was a twinge of sympathy.

"All right," he said. Caldur had a friendly gruffness to him, the sort of air it was hard not to just find likable. He nodded off in the direction of the lavatory vaguely as he spoke, "Don't take too long, though. We have a lot of weird stuff to cover."

Patricia darted into the sanctum of the bathroom, and leaned against the door. From one of her pockets she produced an inhaler, and brought it to her mouth. She stopped halfway, and looked at it puzzled. She put a hand to her chest, and started breathing very deliberately. Again, she looked at the inhaler, her frown deepening. Baffled, she put it back in her pocket, unused.

She looked up, her immediate concerns resolved. The restroom was done half in black tile, and half in white-grey marble, with gold fixtures politely adorning the sink, and towel racks. It was bright, in spite of its colouring, the room was pleasantly bright. There was a large bath, more like a small jacuzzi in a slightly kidney bean shape. It was laid out both luxuriously, and tidily. Shampoos were neatly arranged, there was a little rack-dispensory of various different salts for the water, a basket which contained a withered rose petal or two, but was otherwise empty, and off to the other side, a large pit built into the counter which conjoined with the tub itself. If Patricia had to guess what this was for, she would have said it was to hold a champagne bottle.

The sink was... There was something off about it somehow. The whole place came off as lavish, well-moneyed, stylish if a bit... spoiled? And yet the sink, which was arguably the blandest part of this room... and... something else. She stared at it for a moment.

White black marble with a deep scoop for the basin. Long, elegant gold fixtures. She wondered if it was real gold plating or not. It was pristine and beautiful either way. A dish of soap, which appeared to be made of enough sticks and twigs that it must have been fancy. No, none of this was out of place... It wasn't what was here, it was what was missing that was bothering her. She looked around again.

The sink on her immediate left. The massive canvas with a painting of some people in a desert, the luxury yacht of a bathtub, a comparatively modest shower, which really isn't that modest at all, and the door behind her.

There was no... toilet? Ther wasn't a bidet either, which would have fit with the theme of this place. But there wasn't either. And there was no mirror over the sink. Patricia frowned again. She walked up to the mirrorless sink, and pretended she could see herself as she gathered her thoughts.

"Okay..." she breathed. She tried to collapse herself onto her palms, but she honestly didn't feel that worn out. She instead took a few steps back, and sat on the lip of the tub. She lifted her watch, and pressed two fingers to her neck at the base of her jaw, and waited. Her eyes glazed, and she stopped looking at her watch, her arms slowly sinking back to her lap as the other one stayed where it was. She tried a couple more spots on her neck before giving up on the endeavor.

So here sat Patricia, in a lavishly rich, albeit toilet-less bathroom, staring at the blank wall in front of her, somehow not in the throes of a panic attack. She pulled out her inhaler again, and hefted it experimentally. But decided a second time to simply put it away again. She didn't know why she wasn't in the thoes of a panic attack. Normally she'd be huddled in the corner, swimming in adrenaline, and certain she was dying. Whatever element was missing didn't make her any less scared, it just made her slightly more clear-headed about it.

She took a deep breath, and stood up again. She washed her hands. The fancy bar of soap had scratchy twigs in it which gave it a pleasantly exfoliating sensation, and smelled powerfully of lavender. She tried to scrub absently, but without the distraction of the mirror in front of her, it was hard not to focus on the act. She scrubbed at her palms with her fingernails. A circular motion. This gave way to the backs of her hands, each one of her fingers individually. She cleaned off her nails, scraed out from under them, picked at the sides where it meets the skin. Eventually she did actually rinse her hands. She dabbed them try on the towel next to the sink. It was soft, and full, and fluffy. She rubbed it between her forefinger and thumb as she contemplated it. Wherever these towels had been all her life, she couldn't begin to guess. But they were the softest she'd ever touched.

A gentle knock on the door snapped her attention to it.

"Weird stuff to cover," said Caldur, just a tinge of impatience in his voice. "I can practically hear your confusion through the wall, and I really think you should come out here and embrace the weird a bit."

Patricia glared at the door for a moment before reaching for the knob. It clicked open on smooth hinges, and she was once again in the hallway with Caldur.

"I'm dead," Patricia declared. Caldur laughed. He seemed surprised, but pleased, and effortlessly friendly about it.

"Been a long time since I've seen someone figure it out that fast," he said with a smile. He reached into his pocket, and held out a compact mirror. She frowned, and looked from the offered hand to his face. When she made no move to grab it, and chuckled again. "Sebastian doesn't keep mirrors around, and you look like you could use it. So I went and fetched one."

She looked at it again, and gingerly took it from his hand. She couldn't help but notice how smooth his hands were, given that they were hard and calloused. It was almost more like touching marble than flesh. Cold, too.

She blinked, holding the mirror to her chest, not sure if she was ready for whatever it was Caldur was impyling she needed it for. He smiled again. There had been a time when a smile like that would have been comforting, but Patricia felt nothing for it. He was just a strange man who knew more than she did, and had confirmed that she was, in fact, dead. She had rather expected that laughter to fade into confusion. She knew that's how she was feeling.

"Weird stuff," she prompted him after a stretch of silence. Caldur nodded, and motioned down the hallways before leading her down it again.

"Weird. Well, you're most of the way there with the dead bit. You're undead, that part's true. You're not the only one, there are a few of us."

"Us," said Patricia.

"Us. Kindred," said Caldur, not forcing her to ask the obvious question. "If you want to call it something cheesy, but more recognizable, vampires."

Patricia sighed heavily, her shoulders drooping. She rolled her eyes, and looked at him incredulously.

"This is the part where you tell me you sparkle, and ask me to run away with you?"

"Uh, no. No, not even remotely," said Caldur, wrinkling his nose. "Look, forget most of the stuff you know about us. Most of it's wrong, some of it's true some of the time, and very little of it can be taken at face value."

"Okay," said Patricia hesitantly.

"So, let's start with the beginning. About, oh, I'd say, six hours ago you were human," began Caldur, weighing out the time vaguely with his hands as he walked backwards down the hall.

"I remember," said Patricia.

"Then someone came to visit you," he continued. He studied her face for recognition. "Someone you probably hadn't met before... In this particular case, it was Roberto Garrett. Medium height, pale, brown eyes, dark hair..."

"Yes..." said Patricia distantly. She grappled at the hazy memory. "Yes. He came to the office. Said we had friends... friends in common."

"Right. He was talking about Sebastian."

"The man in the Cravat?" asked Patricia. Caldur stifled a laugh, and nodded.

"Yeah, that Sebastian. I keep telling him to update his wardrobe, but the old guy just won't do it."

"But I'd never met Sebastian before... tonight..." Patricia began, but she felt a contradictory memory start to surface. It was hazy, and she couldn't make it out, but she felt instinctively that she'd just said something untrue. "...Had I?"

"Sebastian's had his eye on you for a while. He picked you out of the Kine to make you his ghoul."

"Kine?" asked Patricia. "Ghoul?"

"Oh, fuck," sighed Caldur. "So much to cover. Quick version without the history lesson is that Kine means human, or humans. Ghoul is like... It's like what's just between a human and a vampire. Sorta suped up human, sorta dumbed down vampire. They're kinda like servants, or thralls to a vampire."

Patricia had no words for this. Some strange, anachronistic, European vampire was planning on making her his slave. And instead she'd ended up a vampire.

"So what happened?"

"Roberto was the Childe of Ernesto," said Caldur. He winced, sighed, and grappled with how best to convey the next bit of information. "We can... We can skip the politics for the moment, and get into that later. We'll just start with Ernesto isn't on the best terms with Sebastian, and Roberto was probably trying to gain his Sire's—Er, basically his vampire parent—favour. He was probably scoping you out, and frenzied, or something. Roberto's never been very stable. So he Sired you."

"Roberto was... He was the man talking to Sebastian when I was unconscious."

"Yes."

"And he's a vampire."

"He was. He's dead now."

"I'm dead."

"He's... final dead. Dead dead. Not gonna get back up again," said Caldur, trying phrases until he was sure Patricia was on the same page. "He broke one of the major laws that govern the Kindred; the Masquerade."

"How very French."

"That's a mighty _polite_ way of saying it. I think it's pompous."

"Right. French."

"French," chuckled Caldur. "Anyway, performing the Embrace without permission is a big no-no. Very against the rules. And definitely something punishable by final death. Under normal circumstances, you'd have been killed to."

"Oh."

"You're... well, kid, you're in the eye of the storm here," said Caldur. "You're Ernesto's grandchilde, and Sebastian wanted to bring you into his fold. Maybe even Embrace you some day. So when you made a case for yourself..." he shrugged charmingly. "Sebastian was probably looking for an excuse to keep you around anyway. And besides," he added. He seemed less charmed with the next words. "You're a political bargaining chip that can be used against Ernsesto, too. So that's a double-whammy right there."

"So, I'm a prince's ward because he wanted me before some other vampire got to me, and my willingness to fight for my own self was attractive enough to keep me around as a political bargaining chip against a rival?"

"You catch on quick. Also, you're clinically insane."


	3. 3 - Mnemonics Do Prove a Helpful Device

The declaration Caulder had just made left her completely reeling. Her mind flashed briefly to the cell again. The oily slick of the concrete greasing up her filthy straight jacket. The terrifying feeling of being trapped, in filth, and dirt... Her hair sticking to her body like rotting kelp, her own oils and sweat dripping down the strands, polluting her skin. The cotton on the jacket yellowed from nights of vomit, blood, piss and shit.

She inhaled sharply, and drew herself back to reality, but the image didn't stick. She'd been hearing things that had been nonsense. Vampires? Princes? She's forced herself to accept them at face value, to just ingest whatever foolishness of this fantasy was that was escaping her from her cell. Whatever daydream she'd managed to forget herself in, she swallowed whole.

But she was in a cell. There was glare from a laminated visitor badge shining in her eye.

"You're clinically insane, miss Brosnen," said Dr. Ames. "You're currently imprisoned for your own safety, and the safety of others. Do you remember what happened?"

"I was at the office, and a vampire changed me. I met the prince, and pledged myself to him," she chanted, stiffly shutting her eyes. Dr. Ames sighed.

"Patricia, you need to face this. Can you hear me, Patricia?"

"I was at the office," she repeated. She felt the bile rising in her throat as the piercing hum of industrial lighting rang out overhead. It buzzed in her skull, drowning out the feel of the plush carpet in the skyscraper. "Roberto Garrett turned me into a vampire," she said, forcing herself to remember the details. Details made it real. Details meant she could get lost in the webbing, the network of fantasy, building it strong and sturdy against the attacks of her therapist.

"No, Patricia," said Dr. Ames kindheartedly. He leaned forward, his hands folding into his legal pad in pity. "Patricia, you're in the Queen's Street Mental Health Centre. Do you remember what happened?"

"I was at the office. Roberto Garrett turned me into a vampire. I met the prince, and pledged myself to him. There was a... a hallway. I was talking to someone..."

"Patricia, I need you to focus in me, now, all right?"

"I was talking to someone, he... He was telling me about the weird stuff..." Patricia said, her voice jumping up a few pitches trying to drown out Dr. Ames. He spoke louder in an effort to reach her.

"Patricia, please listen to me. Patricia, you're in danger!"

"And... you're doing one of those crazy things," said Caulder. "No problem, I'll wait."

...

Patricia snapped to attention, and looked around again.

She was back in the unknown skyscraper. Caulder was standing in front of her. Her hands were immaculately clean, and smelled of lavender. She gripped her hands. The mirror Caulder had just given her was still here, wrapped in a white-knuckled grasp. She held it away from her chest for a moment, daring herself to look into it. To see her face, check that it was clean, pristine, perfect, like it felt.

But she stopped. She couldn't... Her whole body seized at the attempt. It made her hands shake. She thrust the compact back to Caludr, terrified of the thing in her hand.

"You sure?" he asked incredulously. Patricia's stiff nod, and tight little swallow was all the convincing he needed. He took the offered mirror from her, pocketing it with a shrug. "Whatever floats your boat."

"I'm not insane," Patricia blurted.

"Heh, no, that's the thing. You are," said Caulder, sympathetically. "See, there's this thing about us Kindred. You're definitely insane, 'cause you're a Malkavian."

Patricia paused. There was almost something... There was something soothing about this. "What's a Malkavian?" she asked, slowing her speech down purposefully. The shape of the word was unfamiliar and awkward, and she didn't want to get it wrong.

"Well, see, there are these clans among Kindred. It's sort of like a bloodline kinda thing," explained Caulder.

...Isn't this hallway going on a long time?

_No, don't question it!_

Right, right! Of course. Caulder is speaking. Tune in. _Listen_.

"Ernesto was a Malkavian, Roberto was a Malkavian, and you, unsurprisingly, are also a Malkavian," Caulder rattled off. "Each clan has its own special differences from one another. Malkavians? They're all crazy," said Caulder. "And I don't mean in the sense like, 'oh all my exes are _crazy_,_'_ I mean more in the sense that every single Malkavian is actually a bit off the rocker."

"Every one... Always?"

"Yup," answered Caulder. "Some of 'em get embraced and then just go catatonic forever. Some of them become kleptos. Some get an uncontrollable fixation, some develop intense phobias..." he listed absently. "I mean, its severity varies from Malk to Malk," he added encouragingly. "But yeah, every last one is insane."

"Oh," said Patricia, digesting again. "Is there any way to tell in what manner I'll be insane?" she asked.

"Uh, not ahead of time, no. What, were you planning on trying to figure out how it works so you can figure out which bits to ignore, or something?" he teased.

"Of course."

"Yeah, insanity's insanity. Just 'cause it's 'magical vampire insanity' doesn't mean it's more predictable, or easier to dog. Good try, though."

Patricia opened her mouth to argue, but no words came to her defense.

"Of course... you're right," she admitted. She looked at the ground thoughtfully for a moment before looking back up at Caulder. "So what are the other things I should know about being a vampire?" she asked.

"Well, there's the big ones, core to most vamp myths," began Caulder. "We do drink blood. Gotta do that. Fire's a big deal, sunlight is _very _bad news, and you do get to live forever without aging. As for crosses, garlic, throwing seeds on the ground, running water, none of that's a problem. Wooden stakes will give you the Dracula effect, but won't kill you."

Finally, they reached the end of the hallway. There was a large oaken double door, with long and narrow golden handles. "You're above the kine on the food chain now, so you're a bit tougher, faster, and stronger than the average human. But you can still die. It's just a little harder to arrange. Let's see, what else..." he sighted, tapping his chin. He shrugged again, and swung the doors aside.

Inside was conference room. It was dark, dignified, and classy. Straight lines, steel and black. Upon the beckoning of Caulder, Patricia stepped inside. There were no decoration on the walls. The wall opposite of her was made entirely of glass, leading onto a balcony. Nothing could be seen aside from the perpetual grey.

"Are we still in Toronto?" she asked to make sure.

"Yup. This is the Bank of Montreal building," answered Caldur. "On good nights, you can see all of Humber Bay. "I think you can see the islands from this window, but I don't really remember. One of these suites." He motioned to the door on one right. "That's your personal suite. I don't think Sebastian was finished furnishing this place, but he'd gotten it in good enough shape for now," he said. "Over to the left is empty. Your space to do with whatever it is you need. Maybe considering your siring whoopsie, it's just as well it wasn't furnished. You might need to install a llama stable, or something, for all I know," he rolled his eyes. "Conference room's yours too."

Patricia stared at her new surroundings, unsure of what to think. Her mind was drawing an uncomfortable blank on what to do next. She tried to figure out exactly what to account for when choosing her next words. She'd just been given an entire suite in the Bank of Montreal building. Did this building even have suites? Well, she'd accepted stranger things tonight than a bank having a lavish apartment waiting for her.

She wondered what the right response was. Gratitude? She'd just been given an amazing suite. Fear? She might be a prisoner here, for all she knew yet. Trepidation? Obviously they wanted her for something. No one gives this much for free. And they wanted her before she got turned into a bargaining chip, too.

She turned to Caldur, who was looking bored and unimpressed with her lack of reaction. She forced a smile onto her face.

"It's lovely," she said. "Thank you."

Caldur shrugged. "Not from me, I'm just here to hand you the keys," he said. "So back to the weird stuff."

He walked forward, disturbing the perfection of the untouched space, and pulled a chair away from the conference table, straddling the seat, his folded arms on the back, and dropping his chin on top of them. "There are rules and laws to this whole thing, too."

"The Masquerade," murmured Patricia vaguely.

"Right. Basically there are a bunch of traditions which you either adhere to, or the Sheriff hunts you down and kills you," said Caldur. He chuckled. "And I know where you live," he added.

"You're the sheriff?"

"Not for the kine, of course."

"So, what's the sheriff do other than hunting people down who break these traditions?"

"I'm basically the Prince's enforcer. Whatever he needs done, I do."

"And what does the Prince do?" asked Patricia.

"Whatever he needs to to keep the city from falling apart," answered Caldur flatly.

"Right. Okay, so what are these traditions?"

"Masquerade, Domain, Progeny, Accounting, Hospitality, and Destruction."

"My dear, proper ass holes die," mumbled Patricia.

"...What?"

"...Mnemonic."

"Um. Right, okay," said Caludr, surprised, but approvingly. "Masquerade's simple; you know how you didn't know anything about this, or us, until just a few hours ago?" At Particia's silent acknowledgment, Caldur continued. "Keep that trend going. We're a secret from kine. It makes a whole mess for the rest of us to clean up, and we don't like it.

"Domain is a little outdated these days, but it still applies. Basically if someone is considered a fully-fledged kindred, they maintain the laws in their own territory. The Prince's domain is the city, and thus everyone who occupies it answers to him. There are people who maintain domains within the city, even though they technically occupy a subset of the Prince's domain. Things get tricky when those details are messed with, so basically what this one boils down to is respect your elders, they probably have more ways of screwing you over than you have on them.

"Progeny. Don't embrace anyone without the permission of your elders. In this case, the Prince and your clan's primogen. That's the one that did Roberto in, as you may recall.

"Accounting. Basically means if you have any childer, they're your problem. Anything they do wrong is your fault until they're released from you. For you specifically," said Caldur, tilting his head side to side as he sized Patricia up again. "This means that anything you do wrong is bad for Sebastian, since' he's just taken you on as his ward.

"Hospitality is basically just when you enter someone's domain, announce yourself politely. If you try to sneak into a city, people tend to get a bit miffed about that, and might decide to kill you before asking questions.

"Finally, Destruction. Only a city's elder such as the Prince or Primogen, or someone who outranks them within the Camarila can call a blood hunt, or destroy any other kindred. That's their right alone."

Patricia listened to the list, trying to absorb all of the new rules which tethered her to life.

"Don't kill anyone, to make anyone, don't disrespect anyone, and don't let anyone know you're a vampire," she summarized.

"Gold star," answered Caldur.

"What is the Camarilla?" she asked.

"They're us. We're them. There's the Cam, the Sabbat, a few independent clans not really worth talking about in this neck of the woods, and the Anarchs. We're like factions of vampires. Different countries, or systems of governments, or whatever analogy you'd like to use. They have different rules regarding the Masquerade. The Sabbat don't even follow it at all. The Anarchs, well, they can't agree on anything anyway. But mostly they follow them, 'cause a lot of it's just common sense rulings in ye olde tongue."

"We're Camarilla," began Patricia haltingly. Caldur nodded for her to finish that thought. "Was... is Ernesto?"

"Yes. Ernesto is the Malkavian primogen. That's like the head of the Malkavian clan within this city. This entire city, no matter what anyone tells you, is Camarilla domain. Sebastian's made sure of that."

"Do I... Need to present myself to Ernesto?"

"Thankfully, no. Not exactly. You didn't arrive in the city, you were in the city and were embraced. You will have to be presented at Elysium soon. When Sebastian thinks you're ready for it," added Caldur.

"Where's Elysium?"

"Not... Well, not exactly where. It's a thing. An event. And a place," conceded Caldur. "But mostly it's like a little gathering, or party, or something like that."

Patricia looked out onto the balcony. She felt like she should be asking more questions. Like she should be trying to soak up more information, but nothing was coming to her. Eventually, Caldur sighed, and stood up. He slid the chair away, but didn't put it back in line with the others. It was crooked.

"Look, take the rest of tonight. If you need me," he said, reaching into his pocket. He fished out a flip phone, and tossed it to her.

She made absolutely no move to catch it, and it sailed right by her head.

"...use that," said Caldur, slightly disappointed with the response. "It's a lot to take in, but you're doing well. I'll come by and check on you tomorrow night, and I expect some time tonight Sebastian will come by and have words with you. But for the time being, try to just take it in. I'll have Kimmy go by your apartment tomorrow and collect your things."

"I should go-"

"Does anyone there know you?"

"...Yes?"

"You're dead now," warned Caldur. "You're no longer the human you were when tonight began. She died. Everyone in her life lost her. You have to be someone else. So you can't be seen there."


	4. Taking Stock

The door to the conference room closed behind Caldur as he left. Patricia stood, for lack of any other reaction. It wouldn't have been that strange a thing to assume, she reflected, if she'd been in any way able to try to predict what could have happened next. She looked down at her hands. Chalky white, devoid of any warmth of blood. She still had yet to looked at her own face, but she felt sure from the skin on her hands she looked the part of undead.

She didn't know what to do with this. With any of this. Her mind was in the same threshhold of what had been panic for her before. She was scared, confused, overwhelmed, and out of her depth. This was exactly the sort of time she would be blacking out. Instead, she simply looked around the room, waiting for something to happen. A panic was simpler than this. It was something that happened to you, then you got over it and went on with life, just bearing whatever new burden life had thrown at you. She had every right to panic. A panic was familiar territory. And yet she couldn't bring herself to it.

When she'd been standing there for fifty one seconds, she decided she was bored of waiting for panic to set in, and would just move on to the next step as it it had. She allowed herself the final nine seconds to round out the full minute before she finally began to move again. She grabbed out a sheet of paper from the neatly stocked cubby against the wall, and pulled out a pencil from the messy bun of her hair. With what felt like great ceremony, she straightened the char Caldur had sat in, walked around the table, and pulled out the one across from it. She sat, laid the paper out flat, and began to take stock of her current situation.

She wrote down all the words Caldur had introduced her to that she could remember. Kindred, Malkavian, Elysium, Prince, etcetera. She wrote beside them the meanings she'd gleaned from his telling. When she'd finished trying to regurgitate everything she could onto what turned into several pages, she took eleven seconds to pause, and look up. She drew a deep breath, which was unsatisfying as she no longer made any use of the air, but for speaking. Then she looked down at her paper, shifted to a fresh sheet, and wrote carefully at the top, "Questions:"

Her pencil hung there motionlessly as she thought about it, replaying the last few hours event's in her head. She had no paradigm, no basis for extrapolation, no idea how to continue from here. She knew, logically, that the next step was to formulate questions in order to get an edge on... Well, to get a leg up. She was used to being ahead of the curve, good at it even. And one of the important steps was in thinking up questions to ask, and being unafraid of looking stupid by asking them.

After coming up dry for two minutes and twenty five seconds, she finally put her pencil to paper again, and labourously wrote, "How can I make myself useful" then at the three minute and eight second mark, she added, "enough to not be killed?"

She looked down at the words on the page. It was striking to her how little they terrified her, and how seriously she took them. She shouldn't be this ready to accept the fact that she was in a life and death situation, should she? Up until tonight, the most dangerous thing she'd ever done was jaywalk in dark clothing. And yet she had absolutely no doubt in her mind that these were dangerous, devious, and deadly people. And she was surrounded by them, by more of them than she knew, likely. And every single one of them knew more about this world than she did. She didn't know where this certainty came from, but she trusted it completely. And every time she tried to apply logic to this notion, she felt more certain of it than before.

She looked back down at her paper, and wrote two lines below the first question, "How much financial support should I be expecting, and from whom?" Though quickly after writing it, she erased it, dusted the rubber shavings away, and amended it to, "How much financial support am I expected to take on my own?" And as a sub-question, one line lower with a bullet point, she added, "How does a vampire without means provide for itself? Am I expected to hold a job?"

She pushed that paper aside, and shook her head. These were questions that needed to be mulled on in the background. Instead, she would focus her attention to the immediate; her belongings. She wrote up a list of the things she would like brought here, and a list of the things she would like disposed of before they ever reached her. The vanity in her bedroom, a gift from her mother, passed down from her great grandmother. The thought of seeing it again filled Patricia with such an intense terror it was like a wire which ran through every muscle in her body had suddenly been pulled taut. Her hand trembled with the pencil over the disposal pile as she tried to write it. She pushed her arm down to the table, and when her hand wouldn't bend, she took the other one over top of it, and pressed it down. But she couldn't force it. She relaxed back, dropping the writing implement with a clatter that rang out like an air-raid siren in the silence of the room.

She wished breathing would steady her, or that her pills or inhaler would. But none of those would help. Still, even though she was terrified, she wasn't panicking. With a defeated sort of sigh, she made a third category of "Keep with special instructions." The vanity was the first thing listed, with clearly written instructions to keep the mirror covered securely.

Her mind started to slow. It was five twelve in the morning, she knew, even though she looked at her watch to confirm it. She felt heavy, and thick. It wasn't like any tiredness she'd ever known, it was like sickness, and weariness. But she assumed this was some sort of instinct vampires had to keep them from seeing the sun. That made some amount of sense, didn't it? She didn't feel like yawning, she just felt like she was gradually falling. Like quicksand from the state of wakefulness to the state of slumber. Or something like it. She tidied her stack of paper, rose from her seat, straightened it, and set her notes in the basket on top of the cubby from which the paper had come in the first place. With morning soon upon her, she wearily dragged herself to the suite indicated by Caldur, and pulled open the door. It led to a very small hallway, hardly more than a foyer, at the end of which was another door.

The room beyond was clearly unfinished. The matresses were leaned up against the wall, the bed frame hadn't been taken out of the box. There was no other furniture, décor, no windows, just a two more doors and a kitchenette. She wanted to investigate the two other doors, but felt herself fading. Half stumbling, she tripped gracelessly into the room, and shut the foyer behind her. She remembered starting to fall to the ground, but was asleep before she landed.

…

Author's note: Short chapter this time, but I did actually manage to stick to my Monday posting schedule. Next week's will be longer, more involved, and more characters will be introduced. Thanks for reading this far! -Gideon


	5. 5 - Drink the Night

"You're handling this well," remarked Sebastian. His aristocratic speech hinted, only in the most _polite_ of ways, that he was pleased. He reached to his chest, and with an elegant flourish, produces a lace handkerchief. He held it aloft.

Patricia reached out for it. Her mouth felt like fire. Like passion. She felt alive in ways she'd never known before. The sweet heat was slowly running its way through her body, igniting the every cell within her as it went. She felt like she could do absolutely anything at that moment. It took her two disoriented tries to actually grab the offered piece of cloth. She wiped the blood away from her mouth. She held it half way between ready to dispose of it, and offering it back to him, unsure of which was proper. He pulled it out of her hand, stepped closer to her, and continued wiping away at her face.

"Now. You'll have to do better than this when you're on your own," he informed her. Patricia couldn't speak. She wobbled unsteadily on her feet, just licking her teeth. She was barely listening to anything the man said to her. "For now, you're a fledgling. Such lapses are to be expected. But you've made a mess of yourself," said Sebastian.

Finished with his work, he placed two of his long fingers on her chin and tilted her head back to inspect her. She didn't resist at all, and her head rolled skyward, where she saw the stars, and the smog, and the brilliance of the night. She wanted to open her mouth and drink all of that, too. Experimentally, she tried to wet her pallet and let it flood into her, just like the blood from that man's neck. What met her was only cool, damp air. It was disappointing, but not surprising.

"Hmm," said Sebastian. "You're delirious, aren't you," he mused.

"You're tall," said Patricia, feeling like she was supposed to start speaking. Sebastian sniffed.

"Yes," he said stiffly. "Quite. Well. We'd best get you cleaned up, I suppose. We have to present you to Elysium soon. Now, do you remember what I told you to do once you'd finished eating?" he asked her, his languid, but powerful eyes locking hers into their gaze. She searched her memory, everything was a pleasant, but difficult to think through haze.

"Send him back... in a cab," she recited, pulling on all her resolve to find something pertinent in her head, rather than simply something pleasant.

"What was his name?" asked Sebastian. It wasn't patience, or impatience, it was somehow stripped of both inflections. Patricia narrowed her eyes in deep concentration, and furrowed her brows to think. She blinked a few times, trying to get her brain to begin functioning again. It was a bit like trying to drag herself out of bed on a cold morning. She flared her nostrils, and took stock. Tracing back everything she knew about her current situation. Events began to trickle back to her. She painstakingly put them into order.

Sebastian's servant – ghoul? - had discovered her passed out on the floor of her suite. She'd been dragged to her feet, and told that Sebastian wanted to see her. She hadn't remembered sleeping, just the cold silence of inactivity had overtaken her, and it was the next night. Her things had arrived, and were being stored in the conference room for the time being. She dressed, and handed the ghoul her soiled clothes when bid, then she was led off to see Sebastian.

"His name..." said Patricia, trying to bring herself back to the present. She was getting to it. She really was. Sebastian had told her this was one of the important lessons he would be teaching her. This would be his charge as her guardian. He explained that he would act as her sire would have, treat her as his own childe. One of the most important things he would need to teach her was how to feed. So they'd sat down, and had drinks with this man... He was a security consultant with an Australian private military company Sebastian had done work with in the past. Patricia was Sebastian's secretary for the meeting. She took scrupulous notes, because she still had no idea what the night was going to bring for them. What was his name?

"Ian Remming," she finally answered.

"And when you put him in a cab, where will you be sending him?" prompted Sebastian.

"The Royal York on front street," Patricia recited. Her mind was clear, clean again. The high hadn't worn off, but she was using it. It was like having a furnace inside her that fueled her. She felt close to bursting with all the excess. Like a vibration so fast it couldn't even be felt by normal means. She looked aside over to Ian, who was standing beside the two of them with a beatific smile, and wobbling slightly on his feet. He looked like he'd just taken something very illegal, and there was a big smear of blood on his neck.

Her nostrils flared as she looked at the blood on his neck. She knew there was more in there. And what was to stop her? This man was just standing there, helpless.

"We don't kill kine," reminded Sebastian, noticing the look on her face. The hunger there. Patricia snapped back to attention, and looked up at him. "At least, not when we do not have to," he added. "He will come to on his own relatively soon," said Sebastian. "Kine don't remember thrall. From the ride home on, his mind will fill in the details with whatever makes most sense to it. He will be perfectly capable of checking in to his hotel on his own." Patricia nodded. Sebastian disappeared in that way that he could do. Simply step into the shadow, and no longer be there.

She stepped forward, forcing herself to maintain tight control the entire time. She wanted another bite. She wanted so badly to sink her fangs in and taste that sweet nectar again, to let her mind be blown away from reality as it began to sing the tunes of the heavens. But instead, she pulled Ian's decorative handkerchief out of his breast pocket, and wiped away the blood from his neck. There was some on the collar of his white shirt. For a moment she thought perhaps it could pass as a lipstick smear, but it would dry, and turn brown too quickly. And besides, it had permeated the fabric in away lipstick wouldn't have done. Instead, she put the hanky to his nose briefly, and then crumpled it and put it in his hand. If he was suspicious of the blood on his collar, let him think he had a nosebleed.

With that done, she threw his arm over her shoulder, and carried him to a cab. She was staggering a little as she did so. Ian had had a few drinks, and Patricia was feeling them. When finally she managed to flag down a vehicle, she set him in the seat, hardly having to feign the story she'd concocted.

"Had a few too many. Can you take him to the Royal York?" she asked the cabby. The driver nodded knowingly, and flipped the meter. She closed the door, and watched the cab speed off into the night.

When she turned back, Sebastian was there. The slightest quirk of a smile on his face. "Well done," he said. He turned on his heel, and led the way back to his penthouse.

Argh! Late chapter, and short. But better late than never, am I right? -G


	6. 6 - Ernesto Abarca

Sebastian's office was pristine. It had artifacts on display from old conquests. Most of them were nicknacks of little significance more than sentimental. All of them were practical. A ceramic ash tray sculpted by hand, with a history a life to it. An oil painting of the man himself, the colours wearing with years and lack of profession preservation. A cocobolo desk, which though it was taken excellent care of, was old enough to have seen many administrations in its past, and it carried the scars of the occasional mistake on its gleaming polished surfaces.

In front of the desk, stood the man himself, proud and tall. His pinched face was set in his most political smile. Neither happy, nor mocking. Simply intended to be as pleasant as possible, given the circumstance. He had one of his hands tidily and properly resting on the small of his back. The other was holding a metal goblet loosely, the contents of which were nearly rock-still with the steadiness in which it was being held. He wore a dark teal and black coat, with an abstract sort of paisley design, and tails. Underneath, all the way up snug tightly to his throat was a white shirt, and the puff of a cravat. From his cuffs spilled tufts of white fabric, and his slacks were simple, crisp but soft. One of his more casual outfits. He was listening with a tired sort of patience.

"When I came to this city, I did so in good faith," said another voice. Then, said with a deep sneer, "I was told I would be treated fairly, and with respect. I can see these are loose terms with you, Lord LeChance."

"And so you have been, Lord Abarca," answered Sebastian. Ernesto's look of contempt deepened as he continued. "I have dealt with your clan as I would any other. There has been nothing but fairness and respect from me to you." That was a slight, no matter how minor it may have seemed. _From me to you._ Not respect between them, but pointedly going in only one direction.

Ernesto Arbarca was not as tall as Sebastian. He was broader in the shoulders, squarer in the face. His skin was just a touch darker, although kindred shared their paleness regardless of their history as kine. His black eyes were beady, and pinched into a glare. His mustache was dramatically waxed, and curled up on the ends. He stood with both hands resting in front of him on a cane. It was a black shaft, with a dramatic purple crystal at the top. He wore a monocle, and a long coat that no right thinking person could have described in any way other than 'resembling a wizard robe.' He was bald on the top of his head, with what remained of his long black hair tied behind him into a ponytail, and draped within the large curl of his collar. If the thing had been popped up, it would have served to obscure his head from all views but the front and top.

"I take it we have very different definitions of the word _respect_, then, my Lord," said Ernesto, bristling. Even his voice was over the top. It was somewhere between a spanish-stereotype, and a Gandalf impression.

"Do we?" breezed Sebastian mildy. "Interesting. Perhaps I should define what it means for you. We are, neither of us, native speakers of this language. I have taken it to mean deference to right, and acknowledging the privileges and courtesies of all persons with whom I bestow it," he said. His eyes glimmered dangerously. "When I said I would treat you and your clan with respect, this was how I intended to do."

"You and your dog _Fable_," spat Ernesto, glaring daggers at the corner of the room where Caldur was leaning. He waved pleasantly when he was addressed. "Between you, have murdered my childe," spat Ernesto. "Forgive me if I don't see this as _respect._"

"The loss of Roberto is regrettable, I admit," said Sebastian. He didn't even attempt to feign remorse. "However he broke our traditions."

"He was my childe!" roared Ernesto.

"And I'm afraid that does not exempt him from our traditions. He sired within my city, without my permission," explained Sebastian.

"Oh _yes_," said Ernesto with venom. "And this has nothing to do with the fact that the girl he sired you had your eye on."

"It doesn't," said Sebastian, just a little too flatly. "The fact that I extended her mercy, and allowed her to live, that part does."

"She is _my_ grandchilde! I demand she be handed over to me!"

"You wanna be careful what kinds of demands you make in here, buddy," warned Caldur. He grinned with one side of his face, baring his teeth. In one hand, he was playing with a beat up old switchblade, spinning it around in his hand, but never opening it.

"Now, now, Caldur," said Sebastian, the hand which had been folded behind his back came out. He gently pressed his palm toward the floor in a calming gesture. "We're all civilized, aren't we?" he asked, though as he did he was turning to Ernesto pointedly. "It's only natural for Lord Abarca to be upset. He lost his childe, of many years. We would be greatly remiss if we did not at least try to be understanding about that," said Sebastian. He folded his hand behind him, and straighted up.

"However make no mistake, Ernesto," said Sebastion darkly. "Your childe broke our traditions, and I would be well within my rights to visit punishment on you as well for this crime." He set down his goblet with a gentle clack, and stepped forward. "I have no intention to do so at this time. You have served in your capacity as primogen excellently, and I would see your role in this city continue, if I have my way. As far as I am concerned, the fault was Roberto's alone, and he bore the consequences of his actions. As for you, and miss Brosnen, I'm afraid that simply will not happen. Miss Brosnen has already pledged to me her services until such time as I dismiss her. I will be taking her on as my ward, and you will resume your duties within the city. I do hope I'm making myself clear."

Ernesto sat silently for a long time, seething in his own impotence. His hands gripped the head of his cane until his knuckles went white.

"Very well. If it please the court," he finally managed. "However I do wish to meet her. The seed of my beloved Roberto."

It was Sebastian's turn to be silent. He blinked several times. Finally he drew in a long, harsh breath through his hooked nose, and bowed his head once in a small nod.

"Very well. You may meet her. But she is not ready yet. She is a fledgeling, and not ready for-"

"She would do well to be with her own kind, at least once!" roared Ernesto.

There was a sharp click. The only movement in the room was the gentle twitch of irritation on Sebastian's eyebrow. Caldur was standing nose to nose with Ernesto. The switchblade, which was now held out to his side, hadn't even finished opening before he got there.

"I suggest you reconsider being rude to the Prince in my presence," he said, in a low growl.

"Caldur," said Sebastian warningly. Caldur growled and lingered, his eyes holdong unspoken threats of violence which Ernesto did his best not to blanch under. But Caldur's shoulders eased, and be did back off with two languid steps back. His switchblde slid closed with a snap.

"Ernesto, I apologize for his demeanor," said Sebastian smoothly. "He simply worries. About you, and about me." Ernesto was not pacified by this statement. His black eyes turned like daggers on Sebastian, who sighed. "We will discuss this at Elysium, with the other elders of the city if you like. I intend to present miss Brosnen to the entire court then. Is that satisfactory?"

"She should see her own kind."

"And she will. But as the Malkavians are not the ones who are taking her on as their ward, she will not see others until such time as I, as her guardian, see fit. I assure you, Lord Abarca, she is being taken excellent care of, and not being mistreated in any way."

"You can;t explain to her the gifts of Malkav," said Ernesto. Though in this, he had calmed somewhat. His voice was back to the old wise man, speaking The Truth.

"No," admitted Sebastian charitably. "I don't imagine I can. However I can instruct her on the rules she must obey within my domain. And should _she_ show an interest in learning more of her... gifts," said Sebastian. He managed to keep most of the distain out of his voice. "She will be free to do so." Sebastian cleared his throat, and straightened up. "However given the nature of her embrace, she is mine to keep. And I have reserved my right to carry out her previously _postponed_ sentience, if she causes too much trouble," he said, coming down hard and meaningfully on the last part. "Or if she simply _is _too much trouble to keep."

Ernesto's nostrils flared. A cold rage this time, as if recognizing a persistent injustice he was used to dealing with. "Ah, yes," he sneered. "Very well, then. We will discuss this at Elysium. I wouldn't want to give you any _trouble_," he snarled.

"Excellent," said Sebastian, steepling his fingers and smiling. He turned around, and took the chair behind his desk. As he spoke, his attention gradually drifted over to the tidy stacks of paper there.. "I see we understand each other. I will speak with you then. In the meantime, Kimberly will see you out," he finished, with a flourish of a gesture.

"My Lord," said Ernesto stiffly, bowing only with the slightest quirk of his head. He glanced at Caldur a moment, and spared a faint glare, but turned on heel and left in a huff. His cloak whirled dramatically, golden planets and stars fluttering on a purple backdrop, which left a large pile of glitter on the hardwood flooring.

Sebastian waited in silence, his attention on the double door by which Ernesto had exited, until the clak, clak, clak of Ernesto's cane receeded off into the distance before turning to Caldur. He had a dull expression on his face, and raised on eyebrow.

"I'll tell Kimmy to get the broom," chuckled Caldur.

"Thank you, Caldur," answered Sebastian tiredly. "Oh, and..." he began, but stopped a moment. He glanced around his office, a if trying to remember something. His eyes lingered on an empty corner on the far wall, but he shook his head of it. "I'll need to talk to Helena shortly. She'll likely be the next victim of Ernesto Abarca, and should be kept abreast of the changes here."

"Heh, she'll have a few choice things to say about it. 'That ten minutes always gets you, Seba,'" said Caldur, in a mocking, high pitched voice, with his eyes crossed. Sebastian laughed in spite of himself. When he was done, he glared at Caldur, mostly to avoid smiling. Caldur was unabashedly wearing a shit-eating grin on his face.

"I'll have my folks keep an eye on Ernesto for a bit," he said to change the subject.

"No, no," said Sebastian. "That shouldn't be necessary. Contrary to many of his visits, his complaints were entirely reasonable this time. We simply will not be heeding his, ahem, _requests_. Do treat him softly, Caldur, regardless of whatever else, he has lost a childe last night."

Caldur's only answer was to raise his eyebrows in something resembling affronted confusion.

"I don't want the situation escalating. Treat him as you would any other grieving sire."

"All right, all right, I got it," said Caldur with a heavy sigh. "When are we calling the next Elysium, then?"

"Two nights from now," answered Sebastian. His attention was mostly on his paper work again, though his eyes kept flitting to the empty corner. "Oh, and tell Kimberly to send a thank you to Tattiana."

Caldur looked genuinely perplexed at this. "What for?"

"She graciously provided miss Brosnen's first meal by informing me of mister Remming's presence in Toronto. It wouldn't do to be anything less that cordial."

Caldur sighed again, this time finally deflating. Although neither of them looked physically very old, it was starting to become clear that compared to Sebastian, Caldur a teenager. "This politics stuff hurts my head," he said. "And this is the simple stuff."

"That's why you leave this to me, you guard the borders, and Helena manages the kine."

"Is there any point in asking what's going to become of Toronto once we leave?" asked Caldur tiredly.

"Do you care?"

"A little."

"You know how this works, Caldur. We hand the city over to the primogen in power. They and the Camarilla will have to be capable of handling the election of a prince without us."

"Yeah. But usually at least one of these people has your blessing, and seems like they wouldn't run the city into the ground," interjected Caldur.

"Part of the annexation process is moulding a replacement," answered Sebastian. "Within the next few years, I will have one, I'm certain."

"Who?" asked Caldur. "Mike? Tattiana? _Ernesto_? Don't tell me you're thinking of Laurie. And I mean, Serge is a wonderful guy, but not city-leader material."

"Perhaps any of them will grow into the role. Pehaps when Helena selects her replacement among the Toreadors we'll find what we're looking for," said Sebastian vaguely. "Toronto has a rich artistic side, a Toreador prince would suit it nicely, I believe. However at this point, there's little use in speculating.

"Right, I gotcha," waving the subject off. He scratched his stubbly chin. "Okay, I'll get Kimmy to clean up the glitter, and send Tattiana a nice flower vase or something. And I'll spread the word about Elysium. In the meantime, you might want to give Patricia something to do," said Caldur.

"Oh?" asked Sebastian, looking up.

"She's got that... Well, I dunno. She might chew through the walls, or she might make lists until you run out of paper in the entire building," said Caldur. "Did you hear the questions she was asking me?" said Caldur, shaking his head in disbelief. "'Will I have a retirement plan.' 'Is there dental coverage.' 'What will be the list of duties I'll be performing.'" He dragged his hand down his face, pulling his eyelids down so there was pink exposed. Sebastian was stifling a chuckle behind his hand. "I swear. She's exhausting, and really has the wrong idea about this whole thing. You might wanna just... Ugh, I don't know. Just don't make me set her straight, she stresses me out. She's strung so tight."

"My, my, you seem quite taken with her," sniggered Sebastian.

"Yeah, she's _charming._ Look, the point is, once you get her head on straight, I think she's gonna be an asset," said Caldur seriously. Sebastian blinked, and straightened up in response.

"Really..." he mused.

"Malkavian or not," said Caldur, shaking his head. "She's got it. Whatever it is. She's got it all pointed in the wrong direction right now, but she's got it, I think."

"I value your judgment on such things quite highly," said Sebastian, though it was a little uncertainly. The silence after that statement continued for some time while Sebastian digested this new, and unlikely piece of information.

"Very well," he said, pleased but still partially dubious. "I shall consider what kinds of tasks she will be capable of assisting with. Perhaps she will survive the month after all."


	7. 7 - Reasons to Not Look

Over the speakers, Schubert's Symphony number five, in B-flat major played. The sweet sound of strings swelled in the conference room. Or, as Patricia was beginning to think of it, her office. It was a significant step up from her previous office, which had been little more than two and a half walls, and a filling cabinet she used as a desk. Or the one before that, which had been a slightly-less-populated spot in a hallway. Here, she had the place to herself. There was no hustle, no noise, no one to distract her. It was spacious and clean, with an excellent view. Sebastian's efforts hadn't been a waste. She'd furnished the room over the past night and a half.

Patricia got on well enough with the few people she'd met so far. Caldur was friendly, though Patricia instinctively found him untrustworthy. He smiled, and shrugged, and was charming. Patricia never trusted charm. Chances were if you found yourself wanting to like someone, you were likely to overlook anything you didn't immediately recognize as important. Patricia hated overlooking things.

Kimberly, Sebastain's ghoul, had proven herself to be studious, and hard working, which Patricia appreciated. She had come in to take Patricia's measurements, but when asked to, she collected up Patricia's things, had her clothes dry cleaned, dealt with kine movers, and did whatever fine detail things needed doing. And she did all of it without complaint. It wasn't that Kimberly was more trustworthy, it was just that Kimberly in no way appeared to desire Patricia's trust. Their relationship was cool, and distant, without being cold.

Sebastian, the man himself, was busy. She'd seen him when he brought her to learn to feed. She'd seen him briefly in passing in the halls. But he'd seemed so uninterested in her for the most part. She already knew her life depended on her not being bothersome to him, so she made no effort to make herself noticed by him. In all honesty, his presence frightened her. She was all too clearly reminded of the fact that he held her life in his hands. All too clearly reminded of the man who had turned into dusty sludge right before her eyes. What had he done when the lights had gone out that could have done that to a man?

A soft knock on the door interrupted the last few bars of music playing off the record. Patricia frowned, and let the song finish before making any move to answer. As the last note finished out, she moved her papers aside, pushed her chair back, and stood. She replaced the chair back into its perfect row, and walked to the other side of the long table. She pulled the needle off the record, and then pulled the door open.

On the other side of it was Sebastian. His eyebrow was arched high, in haughty impatience. He looked down his long nose at her with the same mild disdain she;d always seen him use.

"You're not dressed," he murmured after assessing her. Patricia blinked.

"This was the suit Kimberly brought me," she answered. "Should I change?"

"It's crooked. And your standard of grooming..." he said, his eyes darting around her hair. Patricia blanched slightly, and cleared her throat.

"I'm sorry. I'll-" began Patricia, but she didn't know what she was going to end that sentence with. It turned out it didn't matter, as Sebastian pushed his way past her into the conference room, still not quite glowering, but coming close.

His expression softened dramatically when he saw Patricia's vanity. It was a finely crafted antique, cherry wood with gaudy carvings of cherubs playing all across its surfaces. It had a few drawers which were kept meticulously organized, and contained what few cosmetics Patricia had collected. Kimberly had acquired a more tasteful and decorative cover for the mirror. A cover which was designed, very clearly, to be difficult to take off. Sebastian looked at Patricia with a strange sort of warmth.

"Well, there's no sense wasting time," he said. "Tonight we will introduce you to the court. We must make you presentable."

There was stillness in the room for a moment. Patricia didn't know how to react to what was happening. After a short time, Sebastian motioned for her to sit in front of the vanity, bowing regally as he did so. She didn't relax on the stool. Her eyes kept darting, keeping him as much in her peripheral vision as she could without moving. He stood dead behind her, though. His arm reached over her shoulder, and for a moment of absolute terror she thought he was going to pull the cover off of her vanity. Instead, he picked up her hairbrush. Her shoulders were up to her ears as she did so. She shuddered horribly when his fingertips brushed against her neck to sweep her hair out of her face.

"It's all right," he said. "If I meant you harm, miss Brosnen, I'd have visited it upon you already," he assured her. He spoke with a voice that held a smile, soft and genuine. He hummed, pleasantly albeit tunelessly, as he delicately stroked the brush through her hair. She felt a little foggy, or perhaps nostalgic. Childhood memories of her mother brushing her hair when she was small mingled hazily with Sebastian grooming and prepping her for the Elysium tonight. Her mind began to clear pleasantly. Each sweep of the soft bristles through her hair pulling out just a little more of her tension. Each stroke undoing knots.

"It's a sweet thought, but you needn't cover the mirror, little one," said Sebastian eventually. His voice was a low rumble. Patricia's eyes started open suddenly when he spoke. She once again chose not to answer, unsure of what was meant. Sebastian chuckled softly from behind her. Surely her hair was free of tangles by now, but he continued to brush it. Rhythmic, massaging strokes. "Do I frighten you?" he asked her.

Her eyes were leery, watching as his bejeweled hand came into view, and left again. Into view, and left again. She nodded, feeling foolish. Much like a small child too shy to speak.

"Very well," he answered, understandingly. "I suppose that isn't without cause. Who told you to cover your mirror?" he asked. She blinked a few times. Again, struck with the terrifying, and unabaiting fear he was going to punish by uncovering it. But turning out the lights, and ripping off the embroidered silk chrysanthemums, leaving her with only... With whatever she would see in a mirror. She swallowed hard, and simply shook her head in answer to his question.

"It's all right to tell me," Sebastian reiterated. But it wasn't. Patricia shook her head more vehemently this time. He shushed her, cooing gently. She felt the change in gentle strokes on her head. At some point he'd put the brush down, and simply started petting her. She hadn't realized she was crying until she felt wet tracks running down her cheeks. She was shaking.

"Shhh," said Sebastian again. He was holding her head with one hand, gently rocking her, and stroking it with the other. She sniffled, and tried to relax into it.

"Did anyone tell you to cover it?" he asked once she'd leveled out. She took a deep breath, even though it didn't help, and shook her head again. Her eyes were sliding shut in lazy comfort. "You decided on your own?" he asked. She nodded, her cheek puffy against is palm. He gently pulled her backwards to lean against him. She could feel him looking down at her, but something in her had become too relaxed to care.

"Why?" he asked.

"I don't want to see it," she whispered.

"See what?"

"...I don't want to wake up."

"Are you asleep?" he asked. She nodded.

"I think so. And I'm scared to wake up."

"You think the mirror would wake you up?"

"When I see myself in a mirror, I can always tell I'm asleep. Then I wake up."

"What would happen if you woke up?"

Patricia swallowed. Her eyes started to become more alert again. She couldn't contemplate that question calmly. She felt the cold terror sweeping over her again. Sebastian must have sensed it too, because to his credit, he simply shushed her quiet again.

He reached over her shoulder again to grab the brown plastic hair claw. He looked at it with an eyeroll. Clearly it didn't meet his standards. All the same, though, he gently twisted her hair, rolled it up the back of her head, and clipped it in place. He then grabbed her by the shoulders, and turned her around. When he saw her face, for just a moment he smiled. He stifled it quickly, and replaced it with a sympathetic, if a bit mocking, pout.

"You poor thing," he cooed, pulling out his handkerchief with a flourish. He dabbed the tears off her face with it, holding her face up by the chin as he did so. When he pulled it away to spit on it, she noticed the tears he'd soaked up were blood. She looked up into his eyes, her own wide with anxiety. She looked to be reassured that this was okay, and that her eyes bleeding shouldn't alarm her. As soon as he saw her panic begin to rise, he smiled again, and patted her on the cheek. She felt the fear dissipate, and her body settled again.

He did her makeup with studious care. He appeared to be enjoying the task, actually. Fussing over her. Finding the way to make her look best. When he was done with that, and he straightened out her tie and jacket, she thought maybe she saw pride in his eyes. He looked her up and down, hands still on her shoulders not yet ready to relinquish his masterpiece, and set it loose. She felt a perverse sense of satisfaction as his pride. He took a deep breath, and nodded his pleasure at the outcome. He gave her a chiding pinch on the cheek, then stepped back and held out an elbow to her.

"Miss Brosnen. We have an Elysium to attend in your honour," he said to her. He bowed playfully. She knew it was condescending, like the way one might act to placate a toddler. But she found that she didn't mind. She wrapped her hands around the crook of his elbow, and led him lead her out into the perils of kindred society.


	8. Elysium pt 1

The Elysium was not neartly as high-felutan as Patricia had somehow expected. True, Sebastian was dressed finely, well groomed and perfectly presented. And even Caldur had made an effort to be somewhat cleaner than normal. But when she was let through the double doors, she was surprised to find that it wasn't... well, it wasn't what she expected. There were no selections of fine wines, no h'orsdevors, no classical music being played by minstrals in the background. There was no dancing, there wasn't even a dance floor. Somewhere along the line she was convinced that it would be a ball, in the classic Cinderella sense. The reality was disappointing, but realistically shouldn't have been surprising.

She took stock. There were fourteen people already in the room when they arrived, the three of them and Kimberly bringing the grand total up to seventeen briefly. Though Kimberly opened the doors for them, she closed them again without entering, leaving them at an even sixteen. A square, thought Patricia with dread.

"I can't..." she whispered urgently to Sebastian. She felt like her feet were made of lead. No, lead was too passive. It was like pins and needles were sticking through them, locking them to the ground.

"Nonsense," sniffed Sebastian. "No one would dare bring you harm here. Elysium is the safest place you could possibly be."

"No, no, no, it's not-" began Patricia. She could feel the same impulse she'd felt when she was alive. The same panic rising. She knew she wasn't hyperventilating, but only because she didn't need to breathe any more. "It's not that!" she said, shaking her head vehemently. She pulled back, trying get back to the hallway, but Sebastian's grip was steady.

"Compose yourself," he commanded her sharply. She swallowed, and yanked her hand away from him. He still outmatched her in strength easily.

"Please... Please, I can't—It's not-" she began, feeling herself lose coherence. Sixteen people. A square. Four sides. Four, times four. She saw the lights of her cell again in front of her suddenly. She blinked, her eyes made useless by the sudden darkness.

"No!" she screamed, forcing herself back to the... What did the room look like? No, no, no... she had thought to drink in all the details that were missing. Think, think, think! What did it look like!?

"Patricia, please, I need you to calm down," said Dr. Ames.

"No! _Let me out!_" she shrieked, writing at her bindings. The straightjacket was on again. She reached her neck down to bite, and try to rip it off. The guard outside her cage smacked the bars with his knight stick sharply to get her attention. Once he had it, he hefted his cattle prod meaningfully.

"Don't hurt the equipment," he warned her.

"Please, is that really necessary?" asked Dr. Ames. He turned his attention back to Patricia, who was still sprawled on the floor, helpless to get herself up off it. A trail of her own drool led down her chin, cutting a swath through the grime on her skin. There was a small yellowed stain on her jacket where she'd bitten it. Clearly this wasn't the first time.

"Patricia. Do you know where you are?"

"I'm anywhere but here!" she answered vehemently. "I'm _anywhere_, but _here_!" she tried again, forcing the words as if her will alone could transport her elsewhere.

"Why haven't you been eating?" asked Dr. Ames.

"I don't need to. I don't require mortal foods any longer," said Patricia.

"Not even water?"

She realized with a start that she was dreadfully thirty.

"Not even water," she rasped. She suppressed a cough as the dryness of her throat made itself known to her.

"I'm told you haven't had any water in almost thirty hours," said Dr. Ames. He let his hand fall drop of his lap. When her eyes followed it down, there was a glass of water next to him. A tray of food too. She was hungry, too, but the water dominated her attention. "Would you like some?" asked Dr. Ames, picking it up.

"I don't require mortal sustenance," she hissed, though her conviction was wavering. "I don't need it," she said, closing her eyes and trying to convince herself.

"You're human like anyone else," said Dr. Ames. "Your body is composed of over ninety percent water. You need it to survive, Patricia." He held the glass out to her.

"_She's over here."_

…

Patirica's eyes snapped open. For a moment, she was blinded by how bright it was.

There were no bars.

There were five people standing in front of her.

There were five paintings on the wall behind them.

There were five windows on the wall beside them.

The tiles on the floor were in a five by five grid. She breathed a steadying sigh of relief as she found all of these facts, and drank them in.

"Spooked by large crowds, I take it," said an unfamiliar voice.

Patricia ignored the voice, and tried to take in as many details of this place as she could. The rest of the people were still here, though they stood a bit back from her, having their own conversations. The ceiling was high. She would estimate it at 25 feet, almost exactly. There were sheer curtains over the windows, which puffed with a fresh, cool breeze. She felt the damn evening air on her cheek like a splash of cold water.

"She's not quite all the way back yet," said another voice. It was the same one which had brought her out of the asylum. Patricia's eyes locked onto its source.

Before her stood a short woman. Unlike the other kindred Patricia had met thus far, this woman legitimately looked dead. She was entirely mal-noursihed, nothing but skin and bones, ashen palour, and deep hollows in her face. Her eyes were milky white, and gazed unfocusedly towards her, though not directly at. She smiled without warmth. She had a short,

"Welcome back, miss Brosnen," she said. Patricia blinked, trying to decide whether or not she should answer.

She looked at the other f—the rest of the five people assembled around her. Beside this deathly ill looking woman stood lanky man with a fedora. Next was Sebastian, his black eyes peering with icy rage towards her, chilling her blood. He didn't look haggard, or bedragled per se. That would have implied he had lost his composure. Quite the opposite, he looked like he had been sharpened to a fine point, and it was taking nearly everything within him not to simply cut her in two.

After that came a man who appeared to be a fat, bald wizard without a hat. She blinked twice, his appearance throwing her again. He was smiling at her beatifically. The only person who looked actually happy to see her.

And finally, a tall, gorgeous woman. Presumably the other of the voices who had spoken. She had long black hair swept up into a high ponytail. Large jeweled earrings, and was dressed to the nines. Russian descent made itself clear on her features, but she dressed like any woman on the cover of vogue might have.

"Now that you're here," said Sebastian. His voice was droll, and tightly controlled. Patrica's eyes latched onto his for dear life. She'd really screwed up, and she was itching for the chance to somehow redeem herself in his eyes. "Allow me to introduce Lord Ernesto Abarca. Primogen of the Clan Malkavian within the city of Toronto. Also your grandsire." Sebastian stepped to gesture the man in question. Patricia sized him up. Yes, he still looked like a ridiculous wizard.

"How do you do," she said, trying to seem polite and formal, without committing to anything more.

"A thousand stars heralded you tonight, childe," said Ernesto.

"I see. Well, thank them for me," said Patricia, her eyes darting to and from Sebastian, trying to get some guidance on how wrong she was doing this.

"The Primogen of the Toreador, Helena Perry," said Sebastian. He took the hand of the milky-eyed skeleton, and guided her forward as he spoke. She smiled, a little plastic, and held a hand out in Patricia's vague, general direction. Again, Patricia looked to Sebastian for confirmation before she took it. Helena's finger were pointed down, and that told Patricia she'd better bow, or kiss these knuckles, and not attempt to go for a fill handshake. She opted for the former option.

"A pleasure," muttered Helena airliy. She was had a very clear air of disinterest.

"Likewise," said Patricia, releasing her hand.

"The Ventrue Primogen, Tattiyanna Lermontov," continued Sebastian. The high society woman bustled forward in excitement, her smile a brilliant glow of enthusiasm. It drew a sharp contrast to the rest of the dark, brooding figures in the room.

"It is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance, little Patricia. So good to have you in the family!" she said, taking Patricia's still outstreched hands in both of hers, and shaking it with chipper glee.

"Thank you. You're too kind," said PAtricia.

"Nonsense! You're the youngest of us around. My Nadia will be so pleased to have a friend," said Tattiyanna, still effervescent.

"And the Gangrel Primogen, Mike."

"Mike?" asked Patricia.

"Just Mike," assured the man himself. He tipped his fedora at her. There was a playing card stuck in his hat. The queen of hearts.

"Helena handles kine politics and arts, Mike and Tattiyana handle vice and transit. Lord Abarca handles the city's more... spiritual pursuits, as well as being very involved in the security of our borders," explained Sebastian. He seemed calmer now, his annoyance with her having passed.

Patricia looked at the assembled kindred in front of her. These were the people powerful enough that even Sebastian had to deal with them carefully. These were the people to get in good with if she ever hoped to escape Sebastian's hold on her.

* * *

So sorry for the late chapter - I was helping a friend move. It's not a good enough excuse, but it's what I've got.

I'm not happy with this chapter, but I wanted to get something posted since I was so late anyway. Hopefully I'll make it up to you guys with the next chapter, which will be at least on time.


	9. 9 - Elysium part 2

Patricia spent the rest of the evening meticulously avoiding conversations which acquired more participants, or lost participants to add up to unfortunate numbers. This meant she circulated a fair amount. She was listening to changes in conversations, for when they were about to end, and when they were likely to continue. She watched the party guests, mostly passively. She found she didn't have anything to say. Which was fine, since mostly people seemed more interested in talking about her than to her. After her little episode earlier, very few attendees wanted to be near her at all.

Patricia sat down next to a young woman sprawled gracelessly on the couch. She tried to size up. Young, possibly as old as seventeen. She was wearing a short skirt with colourful fishnets underneath. A halter top, with bejewelled butterflies in pink and purple rhinestones. Her hair was up in pig tails. She looked bored. There was a backpack with the latest girl teen star all over it, and that holographic printing. Heavy bracelets, belts and chains. Patricia could think of no one less interesting to talk to at this gathering. Which was probably why this girl was alone.

Patricia did her checks. Two in conversation on the couch across from them. The bubbly woman in the feather boa, and the man with the queen of hearts in his hat. Tattiyana and Mike. She would need a mnemonic for this later. She needed a note pad.

That left several conversations of threes, which meant that none of those conversations were possibilities. And she had already been virtually absent from any of the conversations for almost three minutes while she pretended to read a magazine. Important things were happening all around her, but she was drowning in a heavy feeling, trying to keep her mind from recognizing the obvious. If she turned her head to the left, Caldur, Helena, and Sebastian were chatting. Caldur was talking animatedly, painting loud pictures with his hands. Over to Patricia's right, the three highly dressed airheads who Patricia was told were the harpies. Apparently even though they have no responsibility to be there, they show up and take part in the court. But there were three of them, too.

So, forced between forming a quartet, or sit in silence until the next change, Patricia turned to the teenager.

"Hello, I don't believe we've been introduced," began Patricia. "I was told to make myself acquainted with everyone here. I'm Patricia Brosnen."

"I know who you are," replied the girl. She sounded bored to the point of ennui. "You're the Prince's childe. Whoopee, we'll have play dates," sighed the girl.

"Are you Nadia?" asked Patricia.

"What gave it away," said Nadia, disinterestedly. She looked up and stared at Patricia with eyes that were utterly exhausted. "The accent, or the clothes."

"The accent," answered Patricia. She didn't know how to respond to the other. She looked at the clothing more carefully to form some kind of conversation topic. Generic brands of clothing. Good enough quality, but made for teenage girls. Her bracelets declared a topic, written in bright pink outlined letters. "You seem to be a fan of... 'Grin Gals Gadgets,'" said Patricia. Nadia scoffed heavily.

"Yes, big fan," answered Nadia deadpan.

"What do they make besides bracelets?" asked Patricia, after what she felt like was a sufficient pause.

"Teeny-bopper stuff, okay?" sighed Nadia. "Can we just, not? Not tonight, not at the Elysium."

"I'm sorry, I don't..." began Patricia. She didn't know how to gracefully end this interraction. "I can go elsewhere, if you like," said Patricia, for lack of anything better. Nadia looked at her with something resembling wry amusement.

"Oh right. You're fresh off the boat," said Nadia. She rolled her eyes. "This is just how young I look."

Patricia blinked.

"Oh," she answered. Of course, Nadia was probably older than Patricia. "Is it, um, rude to ask-"

"Cowboy era, if you must know. But don't ask me to narrow it down more than that," said Nadia.

"I see. Well, I had no idea. Forgive my earlier missteps in conduct," said Patricia. Nadia sniggered.

"Oh god, you really are his childe, aren't you? Serious stick up your butt," she laughed.

"...Excuse me?"

"Christ. And they call us Ventrue uptight."

"Nadia!" said Tattiyana, swooping in out of nowhere suddenly. She landed on Nadia's lap, with bubbling enthusiasm, brimming with energy. "Oh, Patricia! I'm so glad you and Nadia met, I was going to introduce you myself, but I'd quite lost track of time!" she said. She looked flushed. Did vampires even get flushed? Patricia glanced over to Mike, who was still on the sofa across from them, alone. He was lounging with his fedora tipped over his face.

"Oh, Patricia, I'm so sorry to do this to you, but Nadia and I have this tradition, you see," said Tattiyana. "We'll be back, but these things take all night. It's important to go get a snack between things, to keep the head clear. And to keep this little darling out of trouble," said Tattiyana, pinching Nadia's cheek. "I'm kidding, of course dear, of course," she assuaged. Nadia stood up and smiled slightly.

"Finally. I'm starving. Let's go. You'll be here all night, right, Patricia?" asked Nadia, looking over her shoulder. Patricia looked around a moment. She wasn't leaving a minute before the Prince himself.

"As far as I know," she answered. Nadia rolled her eyes.

"Yup, like sire like childe. You should get that stick seen to," said Nadia.

As the two walked away, there was a flurry of information suddenly passed between them in Russian. Patricia couldn't keep up with the different texture of the language, and all meaning was lost in a dancy and effervescent glow that was Tattiyana.

She turned to the room again. Only thirteen people and her. Thirteen and one. That was something she could work with. Two primes. It could also be five, five, and three. There were many more comfortable arrangement of people to work with now that she could think about the total number. Thirteen. And one. Next, she found herself talking to Lord Ernesto Abarca...


	10. 10 - Elysium Part 3

Patricia was sitting out of a conversation now, pretending to read a magazine while she eavesdropped. Most of the guests had drifted out at one point or another. The Elysium was winding down in that meandering pace of a party which mixes business and pleasure, it seemed. Patricia had met so many kindred as they had come and gone for the night's business. She decided it was imperative to learn whatever she could about them. With her eavesdropping she'd gotten a glimpse at how the inner workings of Toronto were shaped. The vampires truly were the Illuminati that Patricia had always dismissed.

This would require time for Patricia to sort, and digest. To that purpose, she pulled out her note book, and began writing names. She added on notes hastily, trying to arrange all of the information which she had just been inundated with.

Nadia, Tattiyana, Mike, Helena, and Ernesto were obvious choices to write down. She didn't add a note, as her meeting with them had been both uninformative, and memorable. She'd scribbled a few connections between them, denoting what relationships she'd witnessed them to have. After a moment of thought, she did opt to write down 'Cowboy era – don't ask' to Nadia's line.

After that she'd met Laurie, the Nosferatu primogen. When Patricia first saw Laurie, she was shocked. If Helena had been skeletal, Laurie looked downright like a zombie. Or some twisted goblin. But Patricia counted. Two eyes. Two ears. One mouth, with two sets of teeth. Five fingers on two hands... All the important things were the right number. Though to say Patricia wouldn't have recognized the creature as ever having been human. At least not before tonight. She felt immense social pressure to say absolutely _nothing_ about Laurie's appearance. Instead, she turned to Serge.

Serge was the city's Brujah primogen. He was a much simpler problem to start breaking down. He was brawny built white man, with just a fuzz of brownish hair receding into baldness. He had heavy khaki cargo pants, and a white cotton tank top on. Patricia counted the pockets on his pants while he talked to Laurie. Seven. Plus a few zipper one each leg, she assumed were points at which to cut off the pants. Although he dressed the part, though, Serge didn't strike her as the military type. Not in the most generic sense, anyway. He struck her as having been an officer for some time. Perhaps someone who would have gone on to general managerial duties when he returned to civilian life. Had he not been embraced somewhere along the line. As it was, he just looked like someone who was used to being tired a lot.

Neither of them were particularly informative past that point. Once Patricia acclimated to Laurie's appearance, she was swayed that these two people were Primogen for their clans in the sense that _someone_ has to do it, and they stepped up. In time, someone with more hunger for power would probably take their positions. Patricia wondered lightly if Serge and Laurie would get attached to their position. If someone else wanted it more, just how bad would things get?

She brushed that thought aside. It was past three now, the Elysium had been going quite steadily. Sebastian had been constantly occupied for some time, and had no time to realized that Patricia was avoiding him. She put away her notebook, and rammed her pencil into her hair. Sebastian caught her eye when she did, and there was just the slightest twitch of a sneer on his face. He held her gaze long enough that she realized he really was trying to communicate something to her. She pulled the pencil out of her hair sheepishly, and smoothed it back down. He looked mollified by this, although not pleased. He motioned with his eyes towards the washroom nearby. He tapped his wrist two times. She watched him return to his negotiations without missing a beat.

Patricia winced Sebastian obviously didn't want people to know they were meeting in two minutes, or he would have communicated less obliquely. But she was used to being visibly inconspicuous. She'd gotten good at it over the years. She waited what felt like a sufficient amount of time before she started to move. Waited for the openings to naturally form for her to move from person to person. A smile here, a greeting on her way, a casual mention of a previous conversation. And she glided through the room with no one taking a second thought.

The lights flickered for a moment.

Patricia wouldn't have thought anything of it, but every conversation in the entire hall suddenly hushed completely, and the room went velvet with silence. There was a flurry of exchanged looks, from everyone in every network. Patricia knew she'd just missed a thousand important cues, but she was busy looking to Sebastian for guidance. His face was grim. He caught Caldur's eye, and then began to survey his flock.

Then everything went dark.

There was a scream, like a banshee crying out. Patricia hit the deck, and felt the bodies immediately around her do the same.

The cold light of the moon outside barely illuminated. The clouds were thick, and the night was dark. But a ghostly blue cutout of the windows could be seen. A creature streaked through it.

"Get down!" cried Caldur, jumping in front of it.

Patricia blinked in the darkness, her eyes adjusting. She didn't know where Sebastian had gotten to.

The creature swung its arm wide for a swipe across Caldur's face. But Caldur was too fast, and he was behind it immediately. With a strong hand, he latched on to its other arm, and Patricia finally got a good look at the creature.

It was human. Or at least, in as much as that applied to anyone in the room. Five limbs, including its—her—bald head. Her arms were a masquerade violation, though. Her hands folded down, and from that opening protruded massive blades. They looked like they were made of her own bones, reshaped and sharpened into weapons. It was obvious she was frenzied, but somehow the frenzy had been directed only at Sebastian. She seemed to have no interest in the others in the room.

Sebastian straightened his jacked, and smoothed down his goatee haughtily as he approached the assassin. Caldur's grip looked effortless against her struggle.

"Well," said Sebastian. He stepped out coolly from behind Caldur. How had he been there? "How interesting. A Sabbat assassin," remarked Sebastian with clear distaste. "It has been some time since they've sent one. I was _beginning_ to feel forgotten about," he droned with disappointment.

He looked the woman up and down. She had calmed down somewhat, and was simply looking dazed at this point. Her eyes were unfocused and confused. She wasn't struggling, she just looked like all the wind had gone from her sails, and she didn't care at all.

"Pity," said Sebastian disinterestedly. He looked at Caldur, and nodded.

Caldur nodded in response, and began dragging the woman away. She put up no resistance, her limbs dragging on the ground with a long sustain squeak of skin against marble.

"Wait!"

There was a hushed murmur in the room as everyone turned to look at the voice's owner. There before them, with a smarmy grin plastered on his face, and a playing card in his cap, was Mike. Sebastian's face hardened with simmering fury. With the flick of his his fingers, Sebastian halted Caldur. His face quirked mechanically into a patently fake smile. As one might use when addressing a particularly petulant child.

"I trust that the primogen of clan Gangrel has good purpose to such an outburst?" he asked brightly. Impeccable courtesy, if a bit brittle.

"I just think you're being a little hasty there," said Mike. Then, as if it were an afterthought, he added, "your grace," with a half-hearted tip of his hat.

"In my city, I have a rather simple policy with regards to those who make attempts on my person," said Sebastian quite certainly.

"You're renown for just rulings, and fair judgment. All I'm asking for you to do is take the _ten_ _minutes_ of deliberation you're so famous for."

Sebastian's face twitched. Whatever expression had been there for a split second, it was resolved and hidden again before Patricia could recognize it. But it was a definite reaction. She wondered what Mike had meant.

Mike was standing calmly, in an easy lean. One shoulder propped him up against a wall, and both his hands were shoved loosely into his pockets. Patricia couldn't decide which aspect of his current behavior Sebastian would have found more distasteful; his attitude, or his clothing. He still wore the trilby, which had gradually found a more and more impossibly perfected angle through out the night. His hair was gelled under it, or somehow otherwise impervious to hat hair. He wore an orange corduroy blazer, with big brass buttons. Under that was a hawaiian shirt depicting a stylized sunset. It wasn't buttoned up past his belly, which allowed it to loosely reveal the large gold chain around his neck.. His pants were studded jeans, and cowboy boots. All of him danced on the perfect line of disheveled to make it just barely work. Honestly, Patricia wouldn't be surprised if Sebastian was more patient of the man's attitude than his wardrobe.

Sebastian started down Mike with an icy still. After a while, he smirked, and looked over at the woman who Caldur was still holding on to. She had regained some of her attentiveness. She met eyes with Lucian, staring cogently back. He arched on eyebrow, and turned back to Mike. His manner was eerily easy. Fluid. It was like he was telling a joke no one else was in on, suddenly.

"Very well," he said, "This conclave is over in either event. Our location is known. Caldur, are you equipped?" he asked lightly.

"To transport a crazy, boneclawing, Sabbat assassin?" he asked, wrinkling his face. He scoffed dramatically. "Of course."


	11. 11 - Pop quiz

Whatever network Sebastian had running was becoming slightly visible to Patrica. They didn't exit the conclave the same way they came in. The building may not have been selected for its beauty, or comfort, or really anything that had to do with throwing a party. But it had been excellently selected for escape. There was a network of tunnels by which Laurie led Sebastian and Patricia through. Caldur had decided to take the more scenic view, and headed up to the roof. Patricia didn't know exactly what that entailed, but judging by the grin he'd had on his face, she wasn't going to put flying very far down on the list of possibilities. She had no idea what Caldur was capable of. He moved too quickly to keep track of, and was apparently impossibly strong. For that matter, so was Sebastian.

The tunnels led out into a maintenance room which connected to the PATH under the streets. The thirty kilometers of tunnels and pedestrian access underneath Toronto. This was where Laurie left them for the time being. With a wink, he vanished into the darkness, and they were alone.

Patrica turned to Sebastian. He was alert for dangers. Though he maintained his head-held-high regality, he was obviously poised for someone to make a move. He led them out underneath Richmond street, and headed north, finding his way to the City Hall parking structure. There, Kimberly was waiting, leaned up against the door of a limo. She bowed smartly, and opened the door for them. Sebastian nodded his satisfaction, and entered the vehicle. Patricia waited exactly two seconds to make sure that she was supposed to follow suit before climbing in, so as no to embarrass herself. The door was closed sharply behind her. Kimberly's footsteps echoed off the concrete as she walked to the driver's seat.

"When we're safe again..." mumbled Patricia, the thought weighing on her so heavily she forgot to censor it.

"I shall explain more when we're on safe ground," agreed Sebastian. His voice was dark, and weighted. Like there was something rather large on his mind. He turned to Patrica, and looked her over.

She wasn't sure how to feel. Scared? There had just been an assassination attempt on the Prince's life. That felt like perhaps it was a big deal. It hadn't been intended for her, although she probably would have fallen under the category of 'collateral damage,' had this attempt been more successful. Sebastian had enemies, it seemed. And he still controlled whether Patricia lived or died within the Camarilla. Her mind was a buzzing flurry of what ifs, and half-formed plans. But her understanding of what was going on was murky at best. She felt like a child among ancients. Which, as it happened, was exactly what she was. She needed Sebastian.

He was looking at her with almost a maternal expression. A kind of soft smile, that hides underneath other masks of his face. His icy blue eyes had thawed somewhat. He beckoned her to lean towards him. She blinked, and swallowed hard, but did so. She needed him, which meant she needed to be the perfect childe for him. She couldn't have protected herself against whoever that assassin was. Which meant that ward or not, she had to keep Sebastian favouring her, or she wasn't long for this world.

With her head leaned towards him, Patricia felt his long, thin fingertips coil around a rebellious lock of her hair. He pulled it right, brushed it down with the flat of his hands, and tucked it neatly back into place with the others in the plastic claw. Gently, he pushed her back up to a full seated position. His smile was more pronounced now.

"There," he sighed. "Now you look every bit the part of someone who was unphased by your first Sabbat attack," he said. "How are you doing, little one?"

"...Why would the Sabbat want you dead?" asked Patricia.

"There are many reasons," he said, his smile pinching into distaste as the sweetness of the moment was soured by her question. "Tell me, how much do you know about the clans?"

"I read the papers Kimberly brought me," said Patricia.

"Excellent start. Tell me what you understood from them."

Patricia paused, and tried to gather her thoughts. She glanced out the window for a moment, suddenly feeling very trapped in this small space. There were two windows, on one each side of the car. There were two panes of glass in each window. There was a fifth pane separating them from Kimberly in the driver's seat. There were two benches to sit in, facing each other. Each one had three seat belts. Patrica let out a long, slow breath, sufficiently calmed by her check. Five panes of glass. A good sign.

"There are two major factions of vampires," said Patricia. "Kindred," she corrected quickly. "The Camarilla and the Sabbat. There are also smaller independent clans who don't operate in this area. As well, there's the Anarch movement, which while it isn't a major faction, is still a large enough organization to warrant recognition."

"Very good. I see you've taken the top-down approach to learning this," he said. He shook his head wryly. "But you won't ever be dealing with the top down. At least not for a long, long time, my dear. Tell me what you learned of the Camarilla," said Sebastian. He steepled his fingers and watched her over the top of them. She felt his scrutiny like she was strapped to a spinning target, and he was about to start throwing knives. She cleared her throat, and continued despite this. If he wanted to kill her, she reasoned, he could have already done so, and could continue to do so. It was time to start acting like that wasn't his intention.

"The Camarilla is largely composed of seven clans. Toreador, Ventrue, Nosferatu, Tremere, Malkavian, Brujah, and Gangrel."

"Parfait. But what do you know about these clans?" he asked her.

"...The Toreador..." began Patricia hesitantly. Sebastian settled in, ready to patiently listen to her. Again, Patricia glanced out the window. They were just driving around at street level. They didn't appear to be heading anywhere in particular. It made a certain amount of sense, she supposed. No one was likely to try anything right in the heart of downtown where they were very visible.

"The Toreador are known... They're known to be the lovers of art. The muses, the artists, the seekers of beauty and hedonism. They embrace those who see the same light," said Patricia. She glanced to Sebastian for confirmation, but his face was perfectly impassive. If she were too wrong, or becoming annoying, surely he would tell her to stop. So she plunged onward, revealing her imperfect understanding in all its glory. As I am given to understand, Tornto has many Toreadors residing in it. Though I've only met Helena Perry.

"The Ventrue are organized, efficient, and hierarchical. They're the holders of a great deal of power within the ranks of the Camarilla. They were instrumental in the creation of the oragnization, and as such has grasped at the reins better than many clans. The City's prominent Ventru include Tattiyana and Nadia Lermontov. I don't know of any others as yet.

"Nosferatu are physicially twisted, hideous creatures, whose very appearance violates the Masquerade. As such, they operate in the shadows. They do, however, have a vast network of information gathering. How they accomplish so much, and know so many secrets is something of a mystery, and that's probably the way they prefer it. The City's Nosferatu that I know of only includes Peter Laurie, but I understand there are many of them around where I wouldn't see them.

"The Gangrel are a more distant clan. Usually less interested in kindred politics, and usually less interested in human—_kine—_affairs than many. They tend to prefer the wilderness to the cities, but even they have need for clusters of kine nearby. Mike is the only Gangrel I've met so far.

"The Brujah are widely known for their hot-headedness, and passion. It's from their ranks that most of the Anarch movement came. They're a group more concerned with high ideals than practical application. They involve themselves in Camarilla politics often enough, but their vehemence is usually reserved for issues of the organization's moral compass. Toronto has many Brujah, though I've only met Caldur Fable and ...Serge.

"The Malkavians are..." Patricia began finally, though her voice began to tremble. She fought it, but knew she hadn't hidden it. Her hands instinctively grasped each other, and she fell involuntarily silent. She'd just described five clans, and it should be easy to talk about the sixth. But she couldn't seem to summon her voice.

"Yes. The Malkavians," said Sebastian smoothly. He laced his fingers together finally, and shifted into a more conversational posture. "I wonder that you haven't mentioned anything about the Tremere," he mused, moving the subject along. Patrica rallied magnificently.

"The Tremere. Yes. There aren't any in Toronto," she said.

"And why do you think that is?" asked Sebastian.

"I don't know. I was told this was a ruling you made as Prince of Toronto."

"Tell me what you know of the Tremere."

"They're... Well... They're..." she began. She glanced out the window again. It was dark outside, and the reflections on the glass were very visible. Patricia swallowed again, and adjusted herself so she wouldn't be able to see herself in the glass. She started to feel a bit exposed again. And also trapped. But there were five panes of glass. And that meant she was fine. She didn't need to be thinking about this.

"The Tremere are... I didn't really understand. Wizards?"

"Not far off," admitted Sebastian. "But not entirely accurate."

"They started off as wizards. Or... Magi? Or something. And they made themselves into kindred. This makes them both the youngest clan in the Camarilla, and one of the most unique. They have a great many clan secrets, and they have the strictest hierarchy of any clan. They all live within Chantries, which are essentially dormitories for the Tremere. They all answer to their superiors, and operate like... Almost like a military cult."

"Well studied, if a bit incomplete," nodded Sebastian approvingly. "Now. Which clan am I?"

Patricia opened her mouth.

She shut if again.

She blinked.

"I don't know."

"What clan do I most seem like to you?" he asked leadningly. Patricia narrowed her eyes at him.

"You could just tell me," she said. He smiled innocently.

"I could," he conceded. "But then what would you learn? Certainly not how to deduce these things yourself. All these others told you who and what they were."

Patricia frowned, and fell silent. She studied him. She would have guessed Ventrue, had Nadia not practically told her that he wasn't.

"...An unchained Tremere?" she hazarded.

Sebastian laughed.

"No, my dear. And I very much expect that if you had said that within earshot of most Tremere, the implication would have been _most_ offensive. Not merely because of who I am, but also because the very idea of an unchained Tremere is, well," he chuckled again. "Laughable. But you're a great deal closer than I would have anticipated."

She looked out the window, trying to gather her thoughts.

"Think out loud," he instructed. She bit her lip.

"I'd rather not," she said. But when she looked to him, his stare made it quite clear to her that it had been an order.

"I doubt very much you're thinking nothing, little one," he said warningly. Patricia squeezed shut her eyes, and blurted out her thoughts as quickly as they could form.

"I can right out dismiss Nosferatu."

"Hah, excellent deduction. Or can you?"

Patricia stopped dead. "Why couldn't I?"

"The night hides many things, miss Brosnen," answered Sebastian. Patricia could think of no way he could have been more cryptic.

"Are you saying the Nosferatu can... hide their forms?" she asked.

"As I understand it, they can. It's an ability of their blood. One which your blood shares, I gather," he explained languidly.

The limo stopped at a red light. Bright, garish colours filled the limo's cabin as a neon sign bubbling beer flashed its message into the night. There were a great many cars parked in this area. In the distance a vague thumping sound could be heard. They were heading into areas where they were sure there were witnesses, Patricia deduced.

Something caught her eye as she looked out the window. She could see the bench seat across from her reflected in the mirror. She saw it warp, and bend as if it had weight on it. But it was clearly vacant.

"Miss Brosnen," said Sebastian.

Patricia snapped back to attention. She looked across from her at the Prince, the move so jarring that vertigo set in.

No, no. It wasn't vertigo. Hadn't she just seen...?

She looked back at the window. The bench seat directly across from her, empty.

She looked at Sebastian, sitting in the bench seat directly across from her.

Suddenly the lack of mirrors in Sebastian's immaculate tower made sense.

The thumping of the base was rhythmic and soothing. A beat in four four time, at nearly dead on one hundred beats per minute. She couldn't make out most of it, but the bass was loud. She felt it vibrating in her toes. It was almost like having a heartbeat again.

"Miss Brosnen," repeated Sebastian, his voice growing impatient. "Am I boring you?"

"I was... Somewhere else," she answered, startled back to reality. His expression hardened.

"Ah. I see." He shifted uncomfortably. "Welcome back, I suppose," he said, and cleared his throat. Patricia blinked a few times, unsure of what to make of that response.

The light turned green, and the limo began to move again. The percussive thumping left behind. She watched Sebastian watching her. It was a tense sort of silence. She felt vaguely aware that at this point, she might investigate what was around to eat or drink in a limo like this. But... well, neither of them ate or drank. It made that a useless effort. And she had yet to find a suitable replacement for kindred affairs. In her experience, long, tense silences just tended to continue until someone took a hammer to them.

"Do you know what it is I'm doing here?" asked Sebastian. The question seemed to come from a very long way away, much farther than the space of the cabin actually afforded. Patricia blinked.

"Caldur said something about annexing for the Camarilla..." said Patricia. Sebastian smiled wearily.

"Yes. Yes, annexing," he nodded. "Most of Canada has been Sabbat territory for quite some time. Helena, Caldur, and I, have been working tirelessly to expand Camarilla holdings. This is the latest venture."

"You are Prince of other cities?"

"Was, for a time. Before Toronto it was Vancouver. Before that, Portland. And on, and on. We come in, and stabilize a city," he said. "Since we do so within, or so close to enemy territory, our task is complicated. We need to attract a group of highly skilled kindred together, establish a balance of power within a city, secure the borders, and gradually allow the city to become more and more self-sufficient. Then it's time to move on."

"How long does that usually take?" asked Patricia.

"Roughly fifty years, give or take. Although Toronto is proving more troublesome. Not only am I to be fending off the Sabbat, I'm also fighting of Anarch insurgency from Ottowa. The Baron there has not been able to control his rabble. And like children, they lash out at anything vulnerable," he sneered.

"...How many years have you been stabilizing Toronto?"

"Fourty," spat Sebastian.

"F-fuh..." stammered Patricia. She swallowed hard, and looked to the panes of glass. There were five panes of glass in the limo. She had to twist around to see the one behind her. Oh, but if she looked at the one behind her-!

_Not directly behind, because then she'd see-_

"Hello Patricia," said Dr. Ames.

.

..

...

* * *

Author's note:

I want to give a big thanks to my readers. You know who you are. Thank you so much. This project is a labour of love, and it's always easier to pour love into something when you know there are other people enjoying your work too. So thank you. For stopping by, for reading, or for reviewing. Thank you. I hope you keep enjoying!

-Gideon


	12. Big Day

Patricia opened her eyes with a start.

Four glaring fluorescent tubes buzzed unpleasantly above her. The concrete, grimy ceiling of the assylum's infirmary waited just behind. Patricia tried to move, but the air felt like pudding.

"Welcome back, Patricia," came Dr. Ames' most pleasant greeting.

Patricia fought hard to get up. What little she could even feel of her body burned like someone had poured whiskey in her veins. A marble flame coursing through her, making her muscles muddy. After an epic struggle, exerting the entire force of her will, she learned she was indeed strapped down. She tried to scream her frustration, but it ended up coming out as nothing more and a guttural moan. She felt herself begin to sob incoherently, drool falling down her chin in great swaths. Weak, helpless, strapped down,and undignified. She couldn't take any more of this.

"Please..." she tried to say. But that, too, was just an embarrassing sound of pure pleading. She writhed as much as her rebellious body could.

"Had enough, have you?" asked Dr. Ames. He smiled benevolently at her. He reached for I.V. monitor beside her cot. He grasped one of the knobs, and gave it a sharp twist. She writhed involuntarily, as the gentle heat of the whiskey had gradually gotten sharper, until it was like shards of glass inside her. She ground her teeth, shrieking.

"Give it a moment," Dr. Ames said patiently. All the fire in her veins started to recede sharply, as a frosty wave of adrenaline replaced it. Her chest was moving so fast on its own, and for a moment she couldn't fathom what it was doing. Then she realized she was breathing. Not only that, she was hyperventilating.

The restraints were obvious to her now. Her body flailed and kicked wildly, making their presence both a frustration, and a necessity. She choked at first, and gasped, but after a moment she started screaming. She howled, and cried out incoherent sounds.

Finally, she tired herself out. She breathed heavily, but regularly. Her body was slack, her sheets and restraints soaked with cold sweat.

She was still alive, she thought weakly.

"You gave us all quite a fright, Patricia," said Dr. Ames.

She turned to look at him with a flop of her head to the side. Her lips hung open life limp flaps of meat. She couldn't see well. Her eyes had streamed tears, and released of nearly every fluid imaginable had occurred to her by this point. Blinking a few more times only did so much to clear her vision. She opened her mouth to speak, but the drugs hadn't worn off. Her mouth formed a vague shape, but as if her mind and tongue were both numb, no more came of the attempt.

"You shouldn't speak yet. You've already had a very big day," said Dr. Ames. Patricia blinked, and frowned.

"Huuuhngn?" she asked at length. "Gehh, eh?"

"Shhhn, don't try to speak. I just came here to check up on you. It was time for you to wake up, after all," said Dr. Ames. He sounded... strangely excited. Patricia's frown deepened. He pulled out a small flashlight from one of his pockets, and reached towards to face, flashing it in her eyes. He seemed pleased with his unpleasant inspection.

He sat back down on his stool, and began taking notes on the clip board. He tapped at it. He looked pensive, and thoughtful. In the same way someone might when they're doing a crossword puzzle. After a moment, he smiled, wrote something down on the chart, and set it aside. He turned the smile on her.

"Well. We'll see in the next few days if it worked."

"Wuh wooorh?"

"Hush now. You can go back to sleep," said Dr. Ames. He reached for the I.V. Monitor again, even thought Patricia's protests, and rising panic.

Then there was blackness.

For a time, it was complete. But whatever eternities might have passed in that state was lost. Unrecorded history. By the time Patricia's mind was present to account for the darkness, it was starting to fade.

Voices were weaving in an out of her concious state.

"_Miss Brosnen has vanished."_

"_She was right here! How did she get out?"_

She fretted, and frowned, trying to find them. It was Caldur and Sebastian talking. Talking about her. Bt somehow it was... distant. So far away. She couldn't find her way there.

"_I'm afraid we're going to have to find some way of managing these... episodes."_

She tried to open her eyes.

"_...She slipped out of your sight?"_

Searing white lights greeted her. Four of them. Four walls. With four panels of padding on each wall. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the light.

The bucket in the corner had been emptied. The walls had even been hosed down a little. The drain in the floor had been unclogged, too. What was the occasion?

Her throat was dry, and raspy. Her muscles were lingeringly weak and unresponsive. But when she dragged herself up, and swung her feet over the edge of her cot, they obeyed her. Still, she needed to use the walls for support to actually stand. She felt... Odd. Something was missing.

She tried to take a step, maybe walk around for a bit. But her leg brushed against the wall, and shot with pain. She muffled a scream, biting down on her lip to stop it. She fell to the ground as she did, which revealed more places where the same pain was roused. Her other leg. Her arms! The back of her neck. All of them flared with pain. She let out a few whimpering moans to keep herself quiet. She sobbed, and breathed through the agony long enough to get her bearings. When the initial pain finally wore down to a dull thrum, she looked at the first offending limb to examine it.

Down her left leg ran two long, straight, fresh cuts. The first went from just below her ankle, to just below the knee. It had two more lines cut in, like someone had cut open a door for themselves. The same was repeated on her thigh, from just above the hip, to just above the knee. The pattern was on her forearms, though there were even more cuts around her wrists. Wait, that was what was missing.

She wasn't in her straight jacket.

In fact, as she rose up on one elbow, she inspected her hand more closely. Soft, milky skin, with tidily cut fingernails. She was clean, and groomed. She turned over her palm, staring at it in wonder. None of the cuts on her body had actually been stitched, but all of them seemed to be... Well, they hurt, but there was a thin layer of healed flesh over top of obviously raw cuts. She could see her own blood pooling underneath the fine hair on her arms.

"Big day..." she said.

She didn't want to give these monsters the satisfaction of her crying. She didn't want to cave. But this was... She felt her whole body trembling, trying to hold in the tears. She knew she was going to fail at it, too, but she held them in until her chest burned.

"_Why_!" she bawled at last to the empty room. "_Why are you doing this to me! Please I just want to get out_!"

"Ah, there we are, Patricia," came Dr. Ames' smooth voice.

Patricia gasped violently, sucking in all the air around her as if yo catch her sobs before they could reach him. She looked at him with bloodshot eyes, shuddering on the lip of her cot. Desperate didn't begin to cover it.

"Now we're making progress," he continued. Dr. Ames grinned toothily. "I told you that you couldn't escape from it forever."

...


	13. 13 - There are Five Lights

Making progress. Patrica's whole face burned with rage as she stared Dr. Ames down.

"This is what you call making progress?!" she seethed through her teeth. Her hands balled into fists, and her body trembled with some combination of exhaustion, terror, and rage. The incisions all over her body ached, and the ones around her wrists burned as the skin was pulled tight with her whitening knuckles.

"Yes," said Dr. Ames simply. He was pulling a metal folding chair with him. He nodded to someone out of view beside him, and suddenly two guards entered Patricia's cell. The first was too quick for her, and all Patricia could do to resist was scream her indignation. Her body was still sluggish. She felt a poisonous thrum through her, starting from her stomach. It meant that her every effort to fight them was wasted.

They slapped a collar onto her neck, and two restraints which held her wrists and elbows. The second guard clipped them to a device on the wall behind her cot.

"I thought we'd try something a little different today," said Dr. Ames, smoothly. He set his chair down in front of her, dismissed the guards, and sat in it. "The straight jacket... Well," he said with a shrug. "It was never really working, now was it?"

"Why are you doing this?" Patricia demanded again.

"Why is an interesting word, don't you think?" mused Dr. Ames. "You see, I found you like this. Weak, small, helpless... But the world doesn't teach you these thruths. It lets you believe you're strong and capable. Lets you believe that you're able to take on challenges." Dr. Ames paused, and smiled. He breathed in, with all the satisfaction someone might when they step into a forest, pleased with the change from city scenery. He gazed at her with a strange sort of pride.

_Muffled voices. Familiar voices?_

"But how can anyone truly know if they're capable of enduring hardships if they never have before?" he continued. In other circumstances, his tone might have been pleasant. "I wasn't disappointed. When you were given to me, I was promised someone of exceptional sensitivity and mettle. I had my doubts, but I wasn't disappointed."

"_Yes. Well. I'm afraid I was quite disappointed."_

"_She's just a kid. She's getting used to the whole thing."_

"Why are you doing this to me?" asked Patricia again. Whatever madness he was spouting, she wanted none of it.

"Again, there's that why," he chuckled. "Perhaps, it would be wiser, to ask yourself what I'm doing?"

"You're torturing me."

"I'm _helping_ you," corrected Dr. Ames. "I'm fixing you."

"Your mind... said Dr. Ames, savoring the words as he spoke them. He looked like he was salivating at the thought. "Ah, your mind only needed the littlest bit of work. The tiniest push. Your body, though..."

"Well, I had to enlist the help of a friend for that one."

Patricia's mouth went dry. What _was_ he doing?

No. No, she didn't care. She squeezed her eyes shut. It didn't matter what he was doing. She wasn't _here. _There are five lights, she told herself. There are five lights. Focus on the sconces in Sebastian's office. How did she get there in the first place? _A large, black double door. The voices are louder now. Easier to hear. Even easier on the other side of the door._

"_You mentioned you had something of an expert on such matters?"_

"You see," continued Dr. Ames. She heard him stand up. The click of his expensive loafers against the concrete floor told her he was walking towards her. She felt one of his fingers trace the incision on her forearm. It was a delicate stroke, which Patricia tried to flinch away from, but her restraints were firm. "You see, I'm going to make you better..." he said again. This time his voice was a soft whisper.

_A painting of Sebastian on the wall. A large mahogany desk. A view of Toronto's skyline. Five sconces of the rear wall..._

"_I wouldn't go as far as to say Hex is an expert on that stuff... Mostly just the T word."_

"_Send him this way."_

"...There are five lights..." she whispered aloud, trying to drown out Dr. Ames.

"Yes, the five lights," he said, delighted. He let go of her, and stood up. "I could never have asked for a better subject with regards to that! What astute observations. What incredible insight!" he declared.

_The grey carpet. It's short, and hard. The kind that's easy to keep clean, not the kind that's pretty to look at. It has a few flecks of colour to hide the dirt between cleanings. A speck of blue here, and spot of dark red there. The repeated in a 5x5 grid._

"There are five lights."

"We're going to do great things, Patricia..."

Patricia opened her eyes.

Sebastain was sitting at his desk, his fountain pen poised in mid air over a sheaf of paper. Caldur was learning over it, as if being shown something. Both of them were frozen, staring at her.

Patricia blinked, and opened her mouth to speak.

She closed it again.

"Welcome back, miss Brosnen," said Sebastain after a moment. His tone belied a slight annoyance with her. Caldur straightened up, and made an uncomfortable face. He glanced to Sebastain, but the prince was using all his attention to weigh Patricia down with. "I trust your vacation was a pleasant one. But not we have work to do, whenever you're _ready_," he said. By the end of it, his face was in his very politic smile.

She felt her arms twitching. She desperately wanted to touch them, to prove to herself that there were no injuries there. That she was really here. In the room with 5 lights. But there were Sebastian's stabbing, black eyes. Pouring out, in a manner even clearer than speech, that she had embarrassed him. Patricia swallowed, and bowed.

"Yes, my lord," said Patricia. Sebastain's top lip curled.

"Sir will do fine, in this day and age," he sneered. He turned to Caldur, and nodded his head in her direction.

"Ooooh..." said Caldur. He still looked uncomfortable. "You want to send her on that?" he asked uncertainly.

"It seems only fitting," said Sebastain. "After all, you yourself said she needed something to do."

"You sure that's... wise?" asked Caldur to clarify. Sebastian's face did that thing again, where it was like a puppeteer just put his face into the most perfectly benevolent smile.

"I think it's very wise," Sebastain assured Caldur. His tone was too perfectly sincere, lacking any of the lingering annoyance. A clean slate, that's what it was. It made what he said feel somehow both believable, and yet obviously a lie on some level. "She would be engaging in meaningful employment, and learning a little about what that means. We needn't waste higher level resources on the project. As well, Helena is the most likely among us to be able to keep track of miss Brosnen and her little 'episodes.'"

Caldur's face twisted a little, like on some level he wasn't convinced. But he sighed, and nodded. "All right," he said with a resigned sigh. "I'll take her over to the gallery."

"Thank you, Caldur," said Sebastain. Suddenly, a little of the stature about him left. He was just talking to Caldur again, not giving him a direct order, and feeding him the party line at the same time. "Back to the case of our prisoner," said Sebastion. His tone was thoughtful. you mentioned you had Do you want me to be here when he gets here?"

"I shall be quite fine managing him, though I appreciate the thought."

"Okay. But you don't always get along well with..."

"I shall be on my best behavior with your agent, Caldur, rest assured," answered Sebastian, smoothly picking up the trail of Caldur's thought. "I will be pleasant, polite, and appropriately humble on the matter."

"All right, all right, I just worry. Come on, Kiddo," said Caldur, turning back to Patricia again on the last.

Patrica snapped to attention, staring Caldur dead in the eye. In every respect, attempting to look ready, and obedient. Sebastian was sending her on a mission Caldur didn't think she was ready for. And she was proving to be inconvenient and embarrassing to an immortal vampire prince. She didn't need to know any more than that to see 'expendable' written on the wall. Expendable, and being sent somewhere she could be monitored at all times.

"Is there anything I should bring?" asked Patricia.

"Nah. Everything you'll need'll be there when you get there."

"Then I'm ready," said Patricia. She turned to Sebastian, and bowed her head quickly. A promise to try to be useful. She had begged to be spared, she was not above debasing herself to continue to be spared.

"'Bye now," said Caldur, waving to Sebastian as he left. "Have fun with Hex!"

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A/N:

Real life got a little wonky. Sorry for the late chapter. It's been busy here with preparation for the 48 hour film festival. It might be a little hard to keep to the schedule as stringently as I'd like, but even if I miss a chapter, I'm still going to update within a couple of days of Monday, promise!

Thanks to everyone who's reading Toronto Chronicles! It's being a pleasure to write. Hope you're enjoying reading it as much as I'm enjoying making it.


	14. The Gallery

The gallery was a strange, rather interesting space in which had been put many pieces of whatever was most acceptably dismissed as 'Art' lately. It had large glass walls letting passers by peer in. Patricia had passed by this place a thousand times since she'd moved to Toronto. It had just always been there. It was clean, appealing, entertaining occasionally, and never in her way. When she'd first moved from Montreal, she used to take this route to work. She liked it better than the shorter way. Because sometimes there was something funny up in this window. But she'd never really thought of it as a gallery. It was more like a display case. Somehow, in all these years, Patricia had never thought to ask herself what this place even was.

It seemed almost sacrilegious for Caldur to touch this door handle. Like it was the private entrance to a sanctum of some sort. It was an old, wooden door. Many years ago it had been painted red, but most of that had weathered off. There was a flower box there. Six flowers were there, three yellow and three red. The door had five windows, each one cut into a large diamond. Together, they were set in like an X. Patricia held her breath when Caldur's fingers wrapped around the wooden handle of the door. His hand brushed a string tied there, from which hung three little bells. They rattled hollowly, each one looking more broken down and aged than the last.

The door swung open, and Caldur ducked inside, as if none of this were strange. Patricia summoned her courage. They were sent for. She was with Caldur, who obviously was certain this was the place. Moreover, somehow this door seemed private and sacred, but it was in a busy PATH corridor. There was a subway right next to it, and still, it was somehow... It wasn't a store front, it was something _personal._

"Weird stuff," she reminded herself. She took one last look at the door.

It had five panes of glass.

She smiled as she reached for the door. It swung open like an invitation. A warm gust of fragrant air poured out of the entrance. It was dark, and shrouded with soft curtains. The colours were worn, faded. Some were even stained, or bleached out. Patches were sewn on it a great deal of care, but not to matching patters. Or even similar colour pallettes. But as they went deeper in, that mattered less and less. It was very dark in this room. Place. Whatever this was.

She made her way closer to Caldur, following the rustling of the sheets and fabrics hung all over the walls, and from the ceiling. There was a muffled 'thump' from above when she crept closer.

"Ow," grunted Caldur. He reached his hand up to rub his head. "Don't startle me like that."

"I... buh?" said Patricia, affronted.

"You know what I mean," he said.

"Oh," said Patricia, earnestly lost. "Right, sorry."

Caldur led further and further in. The space became more cramped. The things hanging from the ceiling brushed against their heads. They couldn't walk two astride anywhere. Eventually, Caldur crouched, and proceeded ahead of Patricia on his hands and knees. When given no other instruction, Patricia followed deeper into the vampire blanket fort.

After what felt like quite some time crawling in the dark, they made it to a large opening.

There was a single light, placed high up on the wall. Patricia got the distinct impression, from its placement, that it lived there because that would be out of its owner's way. The rest of the room was like being inside a ball of yarn. Or a Jackson Pollock painting. Or... Patricia didn't have words. The first thing that came to her wasn't the shape of the room, or the number of objects. It was the harsh slap of colours which had nothing to do with one another. Spaces that didn't make immediate sense. There was a place to sit here and there, very clearly that's what it was intended for. But there wasn't what anyone would call a couch. There wasn't what someone might think of as a chair. No, it was noting so _simple_ as _that_.

"Close your eyes, dear," said a voice from somewhere in the gloom. It was Helena. Patricia squinted, but couldn't make her out. "It helps to take it in."

"Can we skip the theatrics?" asked Caldur. Patricia looked at him. He was standing impatiently, rolling his eyes at the darkness in general.

"But they're so much fun. If you want, _you_ can be a party pooper," said Helena.

"Gladly!" snapped Caldur, crossing his arms with a tight bridle on his temper.

For a long moment, he just stood there with his arms crossed.

"Well?" said Helena.

"I'm not going through that way again. That was the deal. _Once_."

"There is no other way in or out," said Helena innocently.

"Helena, don't fuck with me. You would never have made Sebastian do this if he had been the one to call you."

"God, Caldur, you ruined the whole mood!" groaned Helena. She sighed dramatically, and trudged into the radius of the single light. She wasn't dressed at all like Patricia had seen at the party. She had a pink, fliffy sleeved sheer robe on, over a rather large, and baggy wool sweater. Which, in turn, sat over a long sun dress, which looked to have been a heavy material.

That was it, thought Patricia, as Caulder grugingly put his hand into Helena's. There was no attention to colour, but Helena was blind. Every attention was paid to texture, smell, sound. Patricia took stock again. She knew what sorts of things to start checking for now. She knew how to ask questions.

Sounds. The opening from the blanket-fort entrance wasn't large, except by comparison. It was cozy, sounds didn't go to far. They were all muffled through the blankets hanging around every surface. But when Patricia looked past those blankets, she caught a glimpse of speakers. Although Patricia knew nothing about speakers, these seemed impressive. It seemed like they circled the entire room, each one the size of a man, easily. Up in the corner was a fountain. It trickled pleasantly. There were gongs, chimes, and various musical instruments hidden in nooks and crannies around the room. Some appeared to be hung as décor, but some was just stashed where it would fit out of the way of anything else. A shelf that made a chair for the blanket fort also made a shelf for a hammer dulcimer.

Smell. There were little sacks hanging from the ceiling, decorative enough that Patricia could almost immediately identify them as potpourri. How many, she couldn't readily tell. It seemed very much like they never got taken down, it was only ever another one getting put up. There were three censers hung around the room, artfully distant from one another. None of them matched. Some of those plates that made those flameless candles work were around, with several candles melted haphazardly in a large bowl on top of them.

Touch. This one was going to be the hardest to deal with.

At some point, it had become clear to Patricia that Caldur was not coming back. Helena stepped back into the room.

"You weren't really gonna fall for it anyway," said Helena with a pout. She shrugged, and fopped down on a nearby cushioned surface. This one was also home to a vase of dried up roses, and what appeared to be a great deal of vinyl.

"I remember you, you know," said Helena after a while.

"Yes," flinched Patricia. The Elysium hadn't left anyone with a great impression of her. "Yes, we've met."

"No, before that," said Helena.

"You do?" asked Patricia, skeptically.

"Yeah, you used to go home this way."

Patricia froze. Helena burst out laughing.

"Oh, man, the look on your face," said Helena.

Patricia's initial shock was spiraling into very real terror at this moment. Caldur was gone. She was alone with an imaciated woman who lived in a pillow fort. Not only that, she was fairly sure this pillow fort wasn't up to fire codes, and that it couldn't possibly have maintained any cleanliness standards Patricia would have set for it. Terror was hard to deal with. But annoyance was easier. This place was unclean. Why was Patricia here? She was here to do some sort of a job. Get that over with, leave here. Simple.

"I was told you have a job that needed doing," said Patricia. Somehow it was soothing to have a massive problem to ignore. Like how much of this nasty blanket fort got on her hands.

"All business. Just Sebastian's type," said Helena approvingly. "I'm glad he found you," she said. She had a quirky little grin, which turned into a massive chuckle. "When you came into the Elysium together..." she said. She swelled with emotion. "I've hardly ever seen him so... happy," she said.

Patricia felt like an ice cube had just been dropped down her spine. Helena reacted to it immediately. She frowned, but seemed to recognize something. She shook her head.

"Oh, no, honey, no, no," she said, waving her off. "I didn't mean anything like that. I mean, how should I know, maybe some day. But you're his childe. He'd never take advantage of you like that," said Helena.

"I'm his ward..." corrected Patricia hoarsely. Helena smiled again, as though staring straight at photographic proof.

"To him, you're his childe," assured Helena. She giggled slightly. "Maybe he doesn't know it yet. But when you disappeared from the Elysium, his first thought wasn't annoyance, it was worry."

Patricia's chest suddenly felt like it was full of stone. Whatever it is when the wind is knocked out of you, but you don't need to breathe. He was worried. She'd been scared shitless. But if he'd known was had been happening to her...

_...what dr. Ames had been doing to her_.

"Whoa, there's calm down," said Helena, rising from her chair. Patricia started to attention when Helena reached forward and gripped Patricia's shoulder. Her strength was immediately obvious, and from the feel of it, could crush Patricia's clavicle with very little effort. Now her chest cavity really felt full of stone. It had hurt.

"There we go," said Helena, releasing her grasp. Patricia managed to suppress her shout of pain, but only in the audible sense. Her mouth hung open comically as she struggled to not voice the grunts and yells Helena's assault had incited. Patricia turned on her with an indignant glower.

"_Ow_," said Patricia, making _perfectly certain _she had enunciated the message clearly. Helena shrugged in response.

"You're still here, aren't you?" she challenged.

"Of course I'm still here. Where else would I go?!" snarled Patricia. Helena's smile whithered into a confusion. Helena blinked a few times, her eyebrow twitching. There was

"Sometimes I hate you Malks," she said dismissively. Patricia opened her mouth to argue, but Helena was already standing and walking away. "Sebastian has good taste. You are someone of exceptional sensitivity, and mettle. Too bad you weren't embraced by him..."

"I was told you have a job for me to do," repeated Patricia finally. She was getting fed up with this woman.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Right this way," sneered Helena. Clearly the feeling was mutual.

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A/N: Okay, but this week I have a semi-decent excuse for not posting a chapter on time. I was going to, but I got locked out of my account for a little while last night. So you get late chapter. Sorry.

I'm also going to be out of town in a couple weeks, so expect more sporadic updates.


	15. 15 - Helena's job

"So what is this job, anyway?"

"One of the utmost seriousness, and importance," said Helena. She spoke with a joking loftiness to her voice. She held Patricia's hand, navigating her way deftly through the blanket fort. For a blind woman, Helena seemed to know where she was going quite well. Patricia wondered if she navigated by smell, or if her haphazard drapery was also something like a braille board to read. Helena's confidence in each step made it easy to forget that Helena's eyes didn't work.

"What should I be preparing myself for?" Asked Patricia, still trying to get a grasp on this.

"Your eyes. I need them," answered Helena crypticall. "Your hands, too!" She said, her voice lilting to be mock-spooky. Patricia really was finding this trying. Just as her patience was reaching a breaking point, Helena stopped.

"Ta-dah!" She said proudly. Patricia looked around. This room had clearly not been laid out with the same aesthetic as the others. For one thing, it was a damn _room_. A strange one, with six walls, and three passageways that led out from it. Against the only wall that had no massage way leaving it, there was a vanity, though the mirror had been replaced with a piece of particle board, and crude finger-painting of what might have been a clown. Or possibly an incredibly crude drawing of a woman all made up. Around the wooden plate were several light bulbs, an entire frame of them as one might have seen in an actor's dressing room. Stuck between the board and the frame was a small photo. It looked very old and faded. It appeared to be a picture of a beautiful, plump woman receiving accolades, and having roses thrown at her, with a curtain behind her.

Against another wall, there was a rack of very nice dresses. An end table which had several different little racks of necklaces. Another with an array of fine combs, and various hair care supplies. Still more with jewellery, accessories, shawls, makeups, and virtually everything a woman of some means needed to continue to appear like a woman of some means.

Helena sat down at the vanity expectantly. Patricia balked.

"I… what is the meaning of this?" She asked.

"You're here to help me maintain my _mysterious allure_," answered Helena.

"This is some kind of joke, right?" Asked Patricia. Helena looked baffled. And perhaps a touch annoyed.

"No," she said. "What, you think this is somehow beneath you?" She asked. Patricia opened her mouth to complain, to counter it, but her tongue was tied. She didn't want it getting back to Sebastian that she was uncooperative. But this felt…

"Is this because I'm a woman?" She asked.

Helena blinked, as it catching up a couple of steps.

"Oh," she said. "Um, no, I shouldn't think so," answered. "All right, hang on. Games aside," said Helena. She stood up, arms akimbo, and leveled with Patricia. "Remember what I looked like at Elysium?"

Patricia did. Elegant, courtly, perhaps even regal. A spectacular show of jewellery. She had looked put together, perhaps even composed. Before Patricia could rectify the mistake of nodding in response, Helena continued.

"Well, in case it wasn't otherwise obvious, I didn't dress myself," she said. Her voice was no longer playful, instead it was tinged with a sharp, but faint annoyance. "I don't have an _eye _for that sort of thing," she said. "Now, I too have my own streak of vanity. Whether I can see it or not, I like to look nice. Especially when meeting with other Kindred. It never does to show up looking like I just rolled out of a trash bin. Do you follow so far?"

"I do, but I still think-"

"I don't give a shit what you think, you're _listening_ right now, got it?" Snapped Helena. Patricia snapped to attention, and was silent in response. Helena cleared her throat, and carried on.

"Right," she said. "I just so happen to have a meeting with Ernesto today. I requested Sebastian to help me get ready. That's usually something he does for me," said Helena. Patricia was just as well glad she couldn't blush. She felt suddenly unbearably embarrassed at her earlier assumption. That sounded like exactly the sort of the Sebastian was likely to do, given her own experience. Helena seemed to somehow know Patricia was uncomfortable, and let her stew in that a bit before continuing.

"But instead, he made an excellent counter offer. I get to assess you. And I get to chaperone your first visit with your grandsire. And I have to say, so far my assessment is that you're no fun, rude, and unhelpful," said Helena.

Patricia bowed her head. The opinion of Helena Perry was likely to make or break Sebastian's opinion of Patricia. Whether it was true or not that he'd never been happier than as her guardian, Patricia was still very clear that she was on shaky ground. She'd only just gotten through embarrassing him at a very important, very public Kindred assembly. But now she was not making a good impression of one of his most trusted advisors. She wasn't scared. She was terrified.

Helena sucked her teeth, her face wrinkling with disgust. "Ugh, stop with the self pity. It spoils the light. Can you work a hairbrush or not?" She snapped.

"R-right," said Patricia. "Of course. I-I'm sorry for the confusion," she said, and rushed to pick up one of the most promising looking of the brushes. Helena turned back to the painting on the broken vanity, with a huff. And again, she say there, even more expectantly than before.

Patricia didn't really want to touch Helena. Her hair was thin, as if much of it had fallen out. Her skin was pulled over hardly anything more than bone. But close, it was even more alarming than it had been from far away. It wasn't that she looked inhuman, exactly. It was that she looked… Well, she really did look dead. To an extent that made all the other Kindred Patricia had met look quite vital and a live. Helena was just a shade or two short of decomposing.

But still, Patricia would not test Helena's patience any further. Despite her hesitation, she began to comb free the tangles of hair, as gently and precisely as she could.

"It's not gross, you know," said Helena.

"Pardon?"

"I can tell what you're thinking. It's not something disgusting. I was just Embraced this way," she said. Patricia's rhythm broke for a moment, but she consciously corrected it.

"You looked like this… when you were alive?" Asked Patricia. "I-I'm sorry, I don't… know how to ask about this politely," she admitted. Helena let out a snort of wry laughter.

"No one does. It's nice you admit it, at least. I was dying when I was Embraced. Wasting away. This is my eternal legacy for that. This is what my Sire condemned me to." Patricia looked at the painting in front of her. And the photo next to it.

"Was that photo… Was that you?" Asked Patricia. Helena nodded.

"I was an opera star," she said. "Rising, the world was my oyster. Bad press, pressures from all around…" Helena shrugged. "I started starving myself somewhere along the line. Which was stupid, really, but then, I was stupid. I got better at it, and better, and better at hiding it, too. But if you get too good at that sort of thing… Well. You can see the result."

"I… don't know what to say."

"No one does," said Helena again. But she seemed calmer now. "I bet you're wondering why I'm telling you all this."

"I had been, yes…" admitted Patricia.

"Because no doubt Ernesto's going to dredge it all up again. So you ought to hear it from me first. Are you just about done with the hair?"

"Oh, sorry, distracted. Y-yes, here," said Patricia, coiling the strands up into a fine, tight bun.

"Next do the face."

"Of course," said Patricia, switching gears. She looked at the assortment of makeups at her disposal. She really had no idea what to do with most of this stuff. The basics were all there, and then some. Patricia grabbed some foundation, and hoped for the best. "So… Your sire…"

"Apparently he'd been looking for permission to Sire me for some time. He was partially responsible for there being no good press to counter. He was suppressing people, trying to get me to fall out of the world's attentions. Trying to make me something obscure, because he wanted me for my talent. Wanted to make me a Toreador. In the end, he was too late. This is what I looked like while I was alive. This is what I'll look like for the rest of my unlife."

"It seems like…" started Patricia hesitantly. "It seems like you've probably heard it a million times… Or… Well, for what it's worth, I'm… Thank you for telling me. I'm sorry you had to go through any of that."

"Hah. Me too. It's long in the past now," she said. But Helena's voice had seemed somewhat misty as she spoke.

They finished the rest of their work in relative silence. Patricia asked a few questions about dresses, and accessories to try and understand the goal, but for the most part, they sat in silence as Patricia preened Helena, and they readied for their meeting with Ernesto Abraca.


	16. The Wizard's Tower

40 King West.

No, no, she couldn't do this. The building loomed above her, dark brick against the cloudy sky. It cast a great heaping, though light gleamed off its corners like traces of glitter caught in the maw of a monster. Patricia's vision swam, dark terrors filling the recesses of her mind. The monolith seemed to sway, beckoning her. Dizzying her. The jagged corners of the indent at the top seemed to move, like the V inscribed in the tower bit like a mouth. Patricia tripped.

Helena caught her with easy strength, not even breaking stride.

"Come on, now," she said. "None of that. Sebastian is right, you're a slippery one." Patricia pulled back against the arms. But like toting a small child prone to tantrum, Helena merely continued dragging Patricia along.

Seven more steps and Patricia would be swallowed whole. She put her heels down, willing herself to somehow be stronger, to somehow stop this affront. Six steps, her efforts proving futile. Helena's apparent effort wasn't even enough to attract attention from passers by. What should she do? Would Patricia call out? Cry, draw attention to herself?

"Help, no, please!" She cried. The people around her still moved past her like water flowing over a smooth stone. No one seemed to be paying her any mind. "No, no I can't go in there!" Five steps. It was now or never, something had to change. "Helena, please, no, _please_!"

"Stop making a scene," warned Helena, taking another step. It was too late now. Patricia saw the address looming above her like Damacles' sword, ready to split her in two as soon as the thread snaps. Her eyes were wide with terror as the mouth of the entrance engulfed her. Why was everyone ignoring her? She was screaming for help, and they just walked past her like she wasn't even there.

"Please, don't make me go in there! Please! _Please_!" She screamed. Another step. She was frantic now, fighting off Helena with everything she had. She dug her fingernails into Helena's arm, tried to pry the fingers off of her, yanked and pulled at her own limb to try to free it. All the while screaming and begging, "Please, please, please! No, I don't want to go, please, don't make me go, stop, please! Please stop! _Please! Please! Please!_"

For a moment everything went black.

The next thing Patricia remembered was standing beside Helena. She was talking, saying something. Ernesto was in front of them. She tried to tune in, but her ears were ringing painfully. All she could tell was that their voices were raised, arguing angrily. Patricia blinked, trying to get a hold on where she was.

The first thing Patricia could pick apart was that there were artistically draped purple satins across every imaginable surface. It was like being inside a tent. Fine, rich burgundy, making the interior dark. There were walls, so Patricia knew they were inside of a building. But the ceiling had been artfully hidden by the swaths of glimmering fabrics. There was a long, thin coffee table, covered in more satin fabric. It had nothing on it except for a large, clear orb, and a five footed stand it rested on. Beside it, littering the floor in an inviting arrangement.

Helena and Ernesto were still arguing. Ernesto was pacing back and forth animatedly. Helena remained standing in place, just in front of Patricia.

Patricia blinked. The sound in her ear was receding, but still left her reeling. She looked around more. The room didn't appear to be lit by conventional means. Instead there were an array of snake lights, behind, around, before, and through nearly everything. It was lit from all angles, not merely top down. It cast terrifying shadows inside the satin, dark, purple reflections onto the room's occupants.

"...have the right to tell me what to do with anyone in my clan!"

"As if this is about your clan, you know as well as I do-"

"-I'll not have you coming into my home and claiming I am a liar!"

"Then maybe you shouldn't invite me here to be lied to!"

"You were never the one invited!"

"You expect the Prince to leave you alone with his ward? Get a clue."

"She is my Grandchilde!"

"He made his ruling, you better get used to it."

Ernesto caught Patricia's eye. A queer little grin lit up the man's face. His tone didn't change a bit, completely disconnected from his face entirely.

"Such is the word of a tyrant!" Cried Ernesto. He smiled, and waved for Patricia to look. Helena didn't seem to notice.

"You _don't_ say that about Sebastian," warned Helena coldly, her fists balling. Patricia frowned, and looked between the two of them. What was Ernesto trying to show her? He drew aside one of the curtains as he continued to battle with Helena verbally.

"Or what, he'll kill my Childe?" Ernesto let out a bitter laugh which seriously mismatched his expression of utter glee, and insistent beckoning. "I'm afraid it's is rather late for that threat to hold and weight. Now he holds my Grandchilde hostage!"

Behind the curtain was a telescope.

"Look, I brought her here. She didn't even want to come here - can't fault her for good taste - but I brought her anyway. Do you want a chance to talk, or not?"

"With an outsider present?" Scoffed Ernesto. Again, he beckoned to the telescope. "You must think our Madness a very simple sort if you think we do not value our secrets as much as any other clan."

"I'm only doing what the Prince ordered. You're not to be alone with her until he says it's all right." Once again, Patricia looked between the two of them. Helena didn't seem to notice the second thread of conversation Ernesto was engaging in.

"You would deny a child it's mother's milk?" Asked Ernesto, sounding horrified. Patricia crossed the room to his eager smile. Picking her way around from behind Helena carefully. She didn't seem to notice.

"I would deny the Prince's ward contact with anyone I deemed dangerous for her."

"Danger is letting her gift eat her apart from the inside without guidance."

"She has plenty of guidance, thanks," snipped Helena.

Patricia made it to the telescope. There was a window here, covered by the curtains. Now that she was close, she could see out of it. The Exchange Tower Bank of Montreal building was right in front of her. Ernesto motioned her to look through it.

"Not in the ways of Malkav. Not if you don't let me see her, and teach her," foretold Ernesto. He advanced on Helena. "I always knew Roberto had a Destiny to fulfil. I have never been more certain of it!" He called.

"Oh god, not more of your prophesies," groaned Helena. Patricia looked through the telescope. She wasn't the least bit surprised to discover that it was looking straight into Sebastian's office.

"With his Final Death so soon after this last act, I am certain his Destiny was fulfilled!" Said Erneso ominously. Patricia looked up. "This Childe, his last legacy, his gift to this city. Mark my words, this spells terrible things if you do not let me _teach_ her!" Ernesto shoved a small parcel into Patricia's unsuspecting hands, and ushered her back to the other side of the room.

"Spare me," said Helena. "Patricia?"

Patricia rushed back from the telescope, and back to Helena's side.

"Yes?" She piped. Helena looked momentarily confused, like something didn't add up. But she shrugged.

"I've had enough. How about you?"

Patricia looked towards Ernesto questioningly. "You would spell doom for us all!" He cried out. Though silently, he nodded, and with a flick if his hands, ushered her away. Why had he shown her that? Why had he done the double talk? What was she meant to understand?

"Yeah," said Patricia, clutching the package Ernesto had just surreptitiously slipped her. "I've had enough."


	17. 17 - Calur's Haven

Caldur was trying to be patient. He was drawing on all his reserves. Really holding it together. He'd stooped so low as to pretending to be Sebastian, at least on some level, just to get through this. It has been the old man's idea of some sick joke, giving Patricia to him to train up.

"Really, Caldur," he'd said, a flutter of laughter, sitting at his desk. "Who else could I possibly trust to train my ward?" Oh, of course it would have been him. Had Sebastian sired his own damned Childe, Caldur would have been happy to do it, too.

In the present, Caldur glanced over his shoulder to make sure Patricia was still with him. She'd switched sides, now flanking him to the right. She was walking with a concerted effort at appearing nonchalant. That is, of course, made difficult by her need to make sure she stepped over the seams in the sidewalk the same number of times with each foot.

"I told you to find her something to do," Caldur had pleaded.

"And I have," answered Sebastian, the picture of joviality.

Patricia was still behind him. Her eyes on the ground. She'd made a meek little protest turned this corner. Something about lights that he didn't understand. Since then, she'd been very pointedly not looking around. But she hadn't vanished, which was good. Caldur still hadn't figured out what to do with her if she did. At the moment, he figured his only option was to beg Helena for help. Which would have been humiliating.

"Something that doesn't involve me. She freaks me out," Caldur had protested. Then after a moment of looking around, had added, "...She's not… here, right?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Sebastian had answered. This had made Caldur shudder.

"You mean you don't know?" he asked.

Still behind him. Good. Patricia wasn't a great conversationalist at the best of times, but usually when she was visible she was at least willing to listen to him talk, and try to ask questions that showed she was paying attention. This was Patricia playin' up the Malk a bit more than Caldur usually saw.

"Patricia does have her little episodes," Sebastian had admitted breezily, having it off with one laced hand. "But she has yet to use them to run away. Mostly she comes and hides in that corner," he'd said, nodding to the far wall with a small smile.

"Nope!" said Caldur, shaking his head. "No, stop. Don't tell me you think it's cute…" To which Sebastian had just smiled, his chest puffed slightly. Caldur has groaned at that. "She's not a puppy. She's not your little girl coming to watch you work. She's a Malk," he'd warned.

"I am well aware of that, Caldur," said Sebastian cooly. Not quite angry with him.

"Sometimes it doesn't… seem like it," replied Caldur, backing of weakly.

"Ms. Brosnen could use a little discipline. Some structure. Besides, it would do her good to get out and socialize with some other Neophites."

"Oh, no. Nooooo nono. Sebastian, no, please," said Caldur. Sebastian continued blithely as if he had not heard.

"Don't you have a clutch of foundlings you took on?"

"None of them are Malks!" protested Caldur.

"Surely she's not as much trouble as Jay has given you," said Sebastian, baiting the trap.

"No-bu-I-One crazy is enough!" cried Caldur. "Besides, aren't I the sheriff? Don't I have important Sheriffy things to do?"

"Oh, I see. Yes, you do, don't you," answered Sebastian thoughtfully. He put a finger on his chin, and clicked his tongue.

"Right, important official things," sad Caldur, with the confidence of a man who had just dodged a bullet.

"Yes, terribly important official things… Do you mean like protecting the Prince's ward?"

"Yes, like protecting-" began Caldur. He deflated suddenly before his mouth got away with him. He shot Sebastian a dirty look. "I hate you," he said.

"Outmaneuvered again, old friend," chuckled Sebastian.

"You owe me."

"I do."

So now, here was Caldur, leading Patricia along behind him. He off 4th st to Lakeshore, and about to introduce her to his crew.

There was no way this was going to go over well.

"Could you at least have worn something less businessy?" Caldur asked, checking over his shoulder again.

"...one, two, three, one two three..." mumbled Patricia, under her breath.

"Right," sighed Caldur.

"This is going to be an absolute blast," Caldur had told Sebastian resignedly. He was feeling those words acutely now.

"We're here," said Caldur. He'd tried to announce it in a bit of sing-song excitement, but it came out reedy and flat.

Patricia finally looked up. "Lakeshore dr 53 - 55," she murmured, reading the street sign aloud.

"Home sweet home," sighed Caldur. He looked at Patricia. She was… smiling? Well, not quite. Caldur wasn't actually sure she _could_ smile, he hadn't seen it yet. But whatever resigned nervousness had been there previously was replaced with something that looked deceptively like confidence, and comfort. She looked up at him, and bowed her head approvingly. And for a moment, he saw what Sebastian saw. And that was annoying. "Whadda'ya think?" he asked.

She sized the place up. It wasn't much to look at on the outside, he knew. Even if you knew the things that Kindred looked for in a Haven. It had a basement, which could be discerned even from the outside. The east wall was light brown brick, and the occasional red or blue one to make it look messier. The north wall was white shingles. All the windows on the first floor were boarded up snugly, and there was a tenant parking lot for the apartment building next door. The house itself overlooked Lake Ontario, too. There was a boathouse nearby that Caldur also used.

"Ten windows on this wall," said Patricia approvingly. Honestly, he'd expected her to be put off by this place. It wasn't the ritzy suite that Sebastian had given her on night one. But, well, Patricia was hard to read. Caldur had already freely admitted that

"Um, yup," he agreed. "That's true. Good catch."

"How do we get in?" asked Patricia. "Everything's boarded up."

"Not everything." Caldur stepped forward, into the fenced off yard. This was a residential area, so there was practically nothing going on at this hour here. And this particular corner was devoid of street lights, none of which was accidental on Caldur's part. Against the building there were several concrete blocks, about the size of a hay bale each. They were stacked two high, mostly in front of the basement windows. Caldur grabbed one set of them, and shoved them aside.

"After you," he said. Patricia looked from the block, to Caldur, her face very carefully masking her surprise. So carefully that her feelings were obvious. Experimentally, she reached forward and tested the weight of the blocks. They really were concrete, they really were as heavy as they had seemed. She looked back up at Caldur again, and shook her head. Caldur shrugged, and decided to take that as a complement.

"No, seriously, after you. I don't think you can close up on your own."

"Me neither," agreed Patricia, gingerly stepping down through the open basement window. She hitched up her trousers - which weren't going to stay immaculate once she was in there, he knew all too well. And by the looks of that suit, it wasn't one of the ones she came with. It was probably one of the ones Sebastian had Kimberly taylor make for her. There was no winning for Caldur here. He sighed, and hopped down in after her, dragging the blocks back into place as he went.

"So, ground rules," he said as Patricia dusted herself off. She looked at him attentively. "Don't tell anyone about this place, or take anyone to this place," he told her. "Anyone who I want to have know knows already."

"Right. Do people… Sleep here?"

"You're right in rude question territory," warned Caldur.

"Right, sorry."

"Next, don't break any external walls."

"That's… oddly specific," answered Patricia with a quirked eyebrow.

"It is. Because breaking just about everything else is fair game, as long as you clean up after yourself," answered Caldur. "We don't want the neighbors getting spooked."

"Of course, the Masquerade," said Patricia.

"Right. Vampire common sense," said Caldur. To his surprise, Patricia chuckled. He continued. "Don't hang around outside the building too long, either. Same reason."

"Makes sense. Anything else?"

"Yeah, this one's important," said Caldur. He stepped in front of Patricia seriously. She watched his face with all the wide open seriousness she could muster. "No losing your cool. You don't seem the type that it's been a big deal for, I know. But lots of the Kindred here struggle with Frenzy. Don't provoke them, and don't get provoked. There's room enough for all of us, just take space when you need it."

Patricia blinked, and looked like she was really trying to digest what he just told her. She took a sharp breath in when she looked at him again, and nodded stiffly.

"I understand," she said. He felt like she might have.

"And don't… Look, you'll see about the other rule. Don't tell Sebastian," he said. Patricia frowned, and looked genuinely alarmed.

"Don't tell him what?" She asked.

"It's not… Look, it's not a big deal, and it'll be my fault if he gets wind of it, no sweat there. But don't…" he sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. "Jay's here," he admitted.

"Oh," said Patricia. Then, after a moment, she opened her mouth wide with shock. "Oh..."

"So, what were the rules?" Asked Caldur.

"Don't talk about fight club, don't draw attention to fight club, don't lose your head, and don't talk about who's at fight club," Patricia recited. Caldur was surprised she was being so cool with this. But he smiled, pleased that she seemed to get it.

"All four, first try," said Caldur happily. Patrica twitched, her eyes suddenly bulging. She looked like she was about to explode, so Caldur acted hastily. "And special fifth rule for you, nothing too insane!" he hissed.

Patricia froze for a few seconds. Caldur did not know what to do with this. He looked side to side, wondering if he was going to have to be Helena to come and save him. Then, Patricia breathed in again, and appeared perfectly composed.

"Five rules," she said. "Five rules. Okay."

Whatever just happened, Caldur decided it would be a good idea to keep his phone handy.

The hallway was dark, and grimy. If Sebastian had been coming, he probably would have cleaned the place up and tried to get it to look nice. He could feel Patrica's quiet judgement of it, but to her credit, she maintained a pleasant composure, and said nothing.

They opened up into the main gym. Half broken furniture littered the outskirts. A few punching bags hanging from the ceiling, and planted on the ground. A ring in the middle, complete with ropes and a raised platform. Patricia was lost for the moment drinking in the details. But the others in the room had gone silent.

Laurie, Hex, Paige, Kylie, and Jay all watched Patricia with trepidation. She could hardly have looked more out of place if she'd been painted neon colours. Fancy black suit, meticulously tidy hair, shiny shoes…

Laurie glanced up at Patricia with unbridled suspicion. His gnarled, Nosferaru features twisting into a quizzical glance at Caldur. Caldur sighed resignedly.

"Everyone, listen up," he said. "This is Patricia. Some of you met her at Elysium. Some of you may have heard about her. Patricia, you remember Laurie," said Caldur.

"Charmed," she said automatically, a little too quickly. Laurie stood, and bowed.

"Pleasure to see you again," he said. The kid had no idea he was making fun of her, and took it at face value. And you know what? That wasn't Caldur's problem, so he let it slide.

"Over there in the corner is Hex," said Caldur, pointing at the scrawny red head in the corner. Hex had so much hair all over his body, that the running joke was that he was a werewolf. He took it well, though. He had a naturally eager-looking lopsided grin. He wore a wife beater and cargo pants, but no shoes. His nails looked more like claws. Dispite this, he looked remarkably approachable. Something in his body language, perhaps. Hex smiled, and waved.

"In the ring are Paige and Kylie," he said, pointing to each as he said their names. "Paige is on loan to us from Ottowa. She's the Baron's main enforcer. Basically my job, but, well, different faction."

"You wish," sneered Paige playfully. "My boss isn't a little bitch."

"Hey, my boss could take your boss any day of the week," retorted Caldur in good humour.

Paige couldn't be described as anything but small. She was scrawny, short, and would have looked cute if she didn't have that look in her eye. Her hair was up in two messy ponytails on the side of her head, held fast with ties that had two oversized aquamarine balls for decoration. She was wearing skinny jeans that were painted on, and the tattering at the knee looked like it must have come from the store. At the top she had a heavily studded belt, which rested loosely at about mid-hip, and a chain from belt to back pocket, presumably holding a wallet. Pinned to the thigh of her left leg were three rows of what appeared to be military commendations and medals. One of her arms was wrapped in a bandage from shoulder to elbow, and a haphazard collection of cheap rings on. As if none of that were enough, she wore a white tank-top which proudly proclaimed her to be a "twilight mom" in maroon letters. She had a fair few piercings, including one on her belly-button. And to top all of it off, she wore a bandana, and spiked collar around her neck. She, too, was barefoot.

"Page may be on loan, but Kylie's one of ours," said Caldur with a little bit of a proud smile. Kylie was a behemoth. She was tall, and looked like she could bench press ten Paiges all stacked on top of each other. And that was before accounting for any kind of vampiric edge. She smirked, her arms crossed as she loomed. Even though she was dead pale, Kylie was a bit darker than the others. She had cascades of dark brown hair, rolling in waves to her butt. Some of it was pulled into a top-knot to keep it out of her face, but that was it. Her huge arms were adorned with tattoos that were either abstract shapes, or possibly they had some kind of tribal significance. She wore an olive t-shirt which had the arms ripped off, a gubby sweatshirt tied around her waist, huge black work-boots, and baggy brown carharts shoved into the tops of them. Most of her clothing was faded and stained with what was probably engine oil and blood. She looked down amused, but said nothing, and made no move to greet Patricia.

"And last but not least, you remember Jay," said Caldur. "Jay's newer to Toronto than you, but she's been here for the past couple of weeks…"

Off in the darkest corner, set apart from the others, was Jay. She was bald. Actually completely hairless, and paler even than most vampires. She wore a loose flannel top, overalls, and sneakers. She sat straddling a chair, her hands draped carefully over the back of it where everyone could see them. She glanced up at Patricia with simmering murder in her eyes, but held otherwise perfectly still.

"I thought-?" began Patricia.

"You met at the Elysium, if you recall," interjected Caldur. Patricia began to open her mouth, but Caldur shot her a look. Whatever else tonight was going to have, telling everyone in this room that Caldur had been ordered not to interfere with Jay was probably a bad idea. Right up there with reminding Jay that she was known only as 'that Sabbat assassin.' Probably either of those things weren't going to make anything better.

"Right," said Patricia, evidently catching on. "Nice to meet you all," she said, bowing.

"Oh god. Where do you Cam fucks even get these guys?" gagged Paige. "Is this your boss' baby?" she teased.

This was going to be a long night.

"Right," said Caldur, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to collect his thoughts. "Were you guys just about to start a match?" he asked.

"Paige is just stalling," answered Kylie, her deep voice rumbling. She smirked at Page, standing standing nearly half again as tall. "She's scared."

"Oh, please," scoffed Paige, stepping right up to Kylie.

"All right, all right, that's great," said Caldur, pacifying them both with his hands. "Laurie, mind reffing for this one? I gotta show the newbie the ropes."

"No prob, Fabulous."

"I told you not to-ugh, whatever. Right this way, Patricia, let's see if you can throw a punch."


	18. 18 - Assessment of J

"No," said Caldur flatly. "Never again."

"Surely it couldn't have been all bad," said Sebastian. If he hadn't been so practiced at holding in his laughter…

"When we started, she was fine. She had terrible form, but she was fine. Then the bell rang for the next round. And out of nowhere, she just _freaked_ out, disappeared, and now there are diapers on _everything in my office_!" shouted Caldur. Sebastian covered his mouth with a handkerchief. Even he was struggling with this one. "I had to call Helena to bail me out and _find_ Patricia, who was freaking out about some kind of paintings, or something!" said Caldur, raking his fingers through his hair.

"Maybe you shouldn't have put her in the ring the first night," said Sebastian.

"_She wasn't in the ring!_"

"She didn't hurt anything, though?" asked Sebastian, his voice strained against his amusement.

"She went into my _office_!"

"It's a garage, Caldur."

"It doesn't matter! She went in, which breaks the ground rules. Who knows what else she did! They're all over! They're _everywhere_!"

"Where do you suppose she got all the diapers?"

"_IT DOESN'T MATTER! _She put a diaper on my _bike_!" cried Caldur. Sebastian choked. "Do you have any idea how long it's going to take to clean all that up? Some of them got wet, too! I don't know how she got the muffler _off_ so fast, let alone-"

"Calm down, Caldur, calm down," urged Sebastian, nearly crying. He rose to his feet, and strode across the room, closing the distance between them. He placed his hands on Caldur's shoulders, gripping them with friendly familiarity. He looked into Caldur's eyes with every attempt at sympathy, even though he could no longer hide his amusement. Caldur deflated, and sighed a few times for effect.

"I shall tell her in no uncertain terms that she made a _mistake_."

"_Thank_ you," said Caldur through gritted teeth.

"And I will send Kimberly to handle the," he paused and swallowed a laugh. "Changing."

"_Not_ funny."

"I'm afraid it is. However I take it she was a good student up to that point?" asked Sebastian.

"I… She was… Please don't do this…" groaned Caldur.

"The fact of the matter is, Ms. Brosnen will be troublesome no matter who keeps watch over her," admitted Sebastian. As he spoke, he noticed a smudge on Caldur's cheek, and since his handkerchief was already in his hand, he began to wipe at it. Caldur didn't protest, just looked dully ahead. "She's coping very well, considering, but she has a long way to go," continued Sebastian, grabbing Caldur's chin and checking it from other angles. He started on another spot while he continued speaking. "Frankly, there's no one in the world I trust more to take care of her than you and Helena."

"So make Helena take care of her…" moped Caldur.

"I have. And I have been taking on as much of her care as my time has reasonably allowed. But you, of the three of us, have the most experience with fledgelings. She's going to have _questions._ And I know she'll be in good hands if she's put in a place where those questions are directed to _you_," said Sebastian. He held Caldur's cheeks in both hands, and smiled, pleased with his work. That done, he stepped back to admire from the appropriate distance.

Caldur stared at Sebastian tiredly. "You're not gonna let me off the hook on this one, are you?" he asked dryly.

"No," said Sebastian with a sympathetic smile. Caldur closed his eyes and looked heavenward, letting out all his air.

"She can't come often, though," said Caldur. "I'll do it. I'll teach her, I'll do what I can. But I can't help the others if I'm on edge, and watching her like a hawk." Sebastian pursed his lips in thought. For a moment, Caldur worried he was about to protest. But he just nodded, an almost imperceptible motion.

"Very well," he said. "I suppose this does little to help her be anything but the Prince's ward with the others, but it is a fair boundary."

"Oh, trust me… No one's calling her _that_."

"No," laughed Sebastian. "I imagine the have a fair few more creative names for her at this point."

"And don't send Kimberly anywhere _near_ my Haven," said Caldur as he turned to leave the room. Negotiations with Sebastian always ended this way. He got what he wanted. This was why he was the Prince of Toronto. This was why he was so good at what he did. He had a way with people. He could play them like a harp.

"Oh, and Caldur?"

Ugh. What now?

"Yeah?" asked Caldur, turning around. Sebastian smiled, and bowed his head just slightly.

"Thank you," he said. Caldur's shoulders dropped a bit. He sighed, smiled, and shook his head.

"I know you'd do the same for me."

"Don't, for a moment, doubt that."

…

There they were. In Sebastian's office. Patricia couldn't help but balk at the familiarity of the situation. She was one of the people deciding the life of a fledgeling this time. How far she'd come. The debate raged on in the background. But Patricia found herself transfixed by the creature - the woman - they were all talking about.

She was tall, and lanky. Pale to the extreme, even by Kindred standards. Completely hairless. She looked almost more like a porcelain doll than a person. Her arms, from where the bone blades had come, looked perfectly normal for now. So those blades were retractable, at least.

She looked like something in her had been shut down. A power cable unplugged, maybe. She just sat there, waiting, her whole body folded down to conserve as much energy as possible. Was there really even a person in there, or was this some kind of puppet, or shell? Patricia wanted to get closer, to see what this thing in front of her actually was. As it stood, she was just an interesting looking mystery. Probably dangerous, though the capabilities of everyone in this room so far outstripped her own that it was hard to accurately judge that. Was she "get hit by a car" dangerous, or "axe murderer" dangerous? Patricia had no real clue. Caldur had dispatched with her so easily that she seemed harmless. But everyone seemed to be taking the potential threat quite seriously.

Patricia tried to tune back into the conversation.

"She's a danger to the city, and cannot be left to roam it," said Caldur.

"She's valuable, and could be a great asset to our border protection," argued Mike.

"She's a Sabbat assassin, with clear goals on my person," stated Sebastian.

"She's a _failed_ Sabbat assassin, possibly with information on who sent her," Mike persisted.

"She's not controllable, or viable," continued Caldur.

"She's untested," Mike attempted. "She might well be controllable."

"It isn't an option," said Sebastian flatly. "Caldur," he intoned.

"My lord, please," said Patricia. She hadn't really realized until it was too late to stop the action, but she'd stepped in beside Caldur, between Sebastian and the bald assassin. Sebastian's black eyes turned on her next, releasing Caldur from their grasp and piercing, vice like, on Patricia. She was glad, not for the first time, that she didn't need to breathe, because the power of a glare like that would have stopped her being able to. Instead, she forced herself to keep calm. It was easy, because panic seemed to just leave her frozen these nights.

"My lord," said Patricia again. She knew she'd been corrected about that, but clearly Sebastian still prefered that form of address. And if she was going to make her case, she was going to push all the buttons she could. "This, um, Kindred, hasn't had anywhere near the level of expert mentorship I've received," said Patricia, testing the waters. Sebastian's glower softened with the complement. He didn't smile, but the immediate pressure was eased. So Patricia forged on. "She's former Sabbat, with little to no memory of what that means. I don't remember the term for it… Shove… Shovel head?"

Beside her, Caldur sucked at his teeth uncomfortably. Patricia looked up at him, but he was turned away, a look of disgust on his face. She felt like she was at sea, having paddled out this far in a dinghy, but now lost for what to do next. The woman she was ostensibly defending was still looking at her knees, Caldur was looking away, and Sebastian's entire attention was focused on her. She drew in a deep breath, and stood at her full height.

And Mike stepped in front of her.

"What I think your, ahem, _ward_, means to say, my lord," said Mike. Sebastian turned on him with a _sharp_ look. But Mike either didn't notice, or didn't care. He stared Sebastian right in the eye, appealing to his decency. Sebastian liked it when people appealed to that. He'd use that. "Where she's had Helena, Fable, and of course _you_, my lord, this poor wretch has had only the Sabbat to guide and protect her. She may be Kindred of some age, but she's a fledgling in the Camarilla, and our laws are foreign to her. She needs mentorship as much as she needs-"

"Are you making a constructive suggestion, _Mike_?" Inquired Sebastian, biting down on his name brittly, neatly cutting him off. In spite of himself, it appeared, Mike's mouth snapped shut. Sebastian had that way of speaking that simply forced anyone else quiet. Mike found his train of thought thrown, as if his words had be shoved back down his throat. He shook himself to get back on track.

"I… am," he said, somewhat uncertainly. Patricia felt a gentle nudge at her foot. Caldur was looking down at her with a warning. Patricia returned her attention to Sebastian.

"I am, my lord," she said. She bowed. Mike began to speak, but Patricia didn't give him room. "With your permission, I would like to teach this Kindred about the laws of the Camarilla. You, yourself, said that I was an exemplary student. Let me be put to work rehabilitating one of the Sabbat's… less… tactical decisions."

Sebastian watched her. His expression was still chilly, unmoving. Mike looked at her with a sense of bitter amusement. Caldur, for his part, looked like this hadn't gone to whatever plan he'd been intending. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Patricia wouldn't rise from her bow until she was bid. She had to know when to stop, when enough was enough. This felt like enough. If this didn't work, then more words weren't going to make it work. Now it was a matter of waiting for the words to sink in. For a long time, no one in the room moved. It's amazing how still a room full of Kindred can be. No breath, no swaying, just perfect statues, like facsimiles of people. Patricia counted the seconds, like she always did.

It took a full thirty one seconds of pure, utter silence.

"Stand," said Sebastian finally. Patricia did so. She could see a flurry of communication happening between Caldur and Sebastian, a long held glance, a series of shrugs. She didn't know exactly what it meant, a century's worth of short hand packed into a single look. But eventually Sebastian closed his eyes, and sighed irritably.

"Ms. Brosnen, you are young, inexperienced, and stepping into matters far outside your purview," he told her sternly.

"As you say, my lord," answered Mike, once again trying to take the conversation somewhere else. "Ms. Brosnen is far too young for a task like-

"And yet, you are correct," he continued, both sharply enough to halt Mike, and reluctantly. "This creature, this... _Kindred_, has not received all the benefits you have. And your offer to extend them to her is… It is noble." As he said that last, he seemed almost moved by it. Sebastian had a deep sense of nobility, and what was just. It was darker, and murkier than he might have liked. But when he could see it, he admired it. He seemed to have trouble refusing her this.

"However," he added, his tone cutting to a different one like a guillotine had just run it through. He was puffed, an authoritative suddenly, all sense of tenderness lost. "You are not in a place in your unlife to be able to offer such a thing to her at this point. You cannot control her, you cannot maintain her, and you cannot tame her. If she took the idea into her head to harm you, I doubt very much there's anything you could do about it. My decision to grant her Final Death is based around safety as much as anything else."

"I understand, my lord," said Patricia. "You cannot guarantee my safety should I undertake this task," she said. Sebastian's eye twitched. _Just_ barely. She wouldn't have seen it if she hadn't been watching for the reaction. Knowing that her comment was a jab to his pride. He covered the movement nicely, by quirking his mouth into a small smirk.

"I can," said Sebastian. "However, the resources required to do so would be a waste. There are… circumstances of which you are not aware. Circumstances of a particularly... _sensitive_ nature."

"May I… speak?"

The voice at the back was reedy, and quiet. It had startled everyone else present, but the assassin had just used words. Patricia stepped aside, almost involuntarily, to turn to look. Sebastian rose from his seat, the darkness coiling around him like it was poised for something. Tendrils of shadow tore away from his body, sticking to the chair like strings of taffy, or wisps of air. Some sickly slime that puffed into nothingness once it stretched and snapped away from its host. Even Mike had the good sense to put some distance between himself and Sebastian.

"Speak," said Sebastian tersely. The assassin hadn't looked up yet. She was still sitting on the ground, her legs folded underneath her, her head drooped like someone who had given up on using it. Sebastian watched her closely. And Patricia realized that this was it. Sebastian was poised to strike. These might have been her very last words.

"I want… to live."

Sebastian's fury waned a bit. He stood back on his heels, his back straight. He looked no less likely to have her killed, no more sympathetic, but less likely to do it himself. That was one step, at least. He let out a single, bitter laugh.

"I'm afraid that isn't an option," he told her coolly.

"I… want to…" began the assassin. She seemed to fumble with the words. Her hairless brow knotted in her face. Her colourless lips worked around the invisible shape of what she was trying to say. "I want to… be… me," she tried. "To do…" she began, but she shook her head. "To have…" again, this wasn't right, and she shook her head. "I can't… say…"

"I understand your meaning," said Sebastian. He pitied her at least that much. "You wish to persist. That much, I understand." He studied her closely. "Ms. Brosnen."

"Yes, sir?" Asked Patricia, snapping to attention. He turned to her tiredly. Caldur's attentions filling in perfectly to keep an eye on their guests. They two of them had clearly done this so long, the relationship was symbiotic.

"I shall need you to fetch Helena for me," he said, finally caving.

"At once," said Patricia, bowing.

"Mike, Caldur, you two will stay with our guest. Make sure she's comfortable, and that neither of you leave her presence."


	19. 19 - Continued Assessment

Helena entered the room in a flurry of action. When Patricia had fetched her, the communication had been brief, and passed with no small ammount of annoyance between the two. Even a mutter of, "God, this is worse than when he sends Kimberly to fetch me," from Helena. She had to know Patricia could hear it, though she'd said it where she could pretend she didn't mean for Patrica to hear.

As soon as she was in the building, though, it was a different story. Helena seemed to understand the urgency, and then some.

"Good god…" murmured Helena. "What even _is_ that thing?" She asked, her pace increasing. Patricia had to fight to keep up with her.

"You mean the assassin?" Asked Patricia.

"Who let it be in a room with Sebastian and Caldur?!" She snapped, practically breaking into a run. She shoved the office door open, bursting her way in.

"Step away from that thing!" Helena ordered.

"Ah, Helena," said Sebastian, masking the fact that he was obeying by stepping towards her. He offered her a hand, but she walked in past it.

"Why isn't it dead?" She asked.

"That's the subject of the current debate," said Sebastian patiently.

"That thing has more streaks in its aura than a trashed frat house."

"How… colourful," said Caldur with a touch of disgust.

"Why isn't it _dead_?" She demanded again.

"Black streaks, you say?" Inquired Sebastian.

"_Yes!_" Answered Helena.

"Then it's as I suspected," said Sebastian, looking down at the assassin.

"You suspected she was a diablerist?" Asked Caldur.

"It's not just one or two, either…" warned Helena. She shuddered as she turned her attention on the bald woman, revulsion clear on her features. "There are _a lot _of streaks."

"That means a lot of Kindred Snaxs," said Caldur, understanding blooming. He stepped a little further away from her with a tinge of horror on his face. For her part, the assassin was still sitting quite passively on the floor.

"Yes," answered Sebastian. "I've seen this sort of thing before. Will you speak again, assassin?"

But she was silent. Sebastian nodded his lack of surprise, and turned to Helena.

"Can you make anything else out in her aura?" He asked. Helena hissed her frustration.

"Nothing else _needs_ to be made out. She's killed and _eaten_ other Kindred!" Insisted Helena. "That alone is enough to grant her Final Death! What's the _holdup_ on that?"

"A case has been made," said Sebastian levelly. "And I am hearing it to its completion. Until such time as my verdict is reached, I suggest you control yourself," he concluded. There was a long, patient stare at Helena. She gritted her teeth, and recomposed herself. But she was cold, and aloof. Not the Helena from the Gallery. Instead, the Helena seen at Elysium again.

"Fine," she said.

"Tell me what you see," Sebastian instructed. Helena bristled under the command, but turned her attention to the assassin. She appeared to be looking deeply - though, as was always the case, not with her eyes.

It became clear to Patricia at this moment how little she'd understood of Helena's condition. Helena had made reference to things like the look on people's faces. Or what someone's face was telling her. Patricia's delving into the understanding of vampire abilities had been dry, academic, and frankly unbelievable. Which was to say, Patricia had no idea how literal any of these described abilities were. Now she was getting a sense. Helena was reading the assassin's soul.

She sniffed, her assessment continuing.

"It's blood bound."

"Really?" Asked Sebastian, suddenly interested. "How unusual for the Sabbat."

"I'd peg it at effectively seventh generation," continued Helena. "Though it's hard to tell with all that diablerie."

"Of course, of course. Tell me, though," said Sebastian at length. He stroked his chin, smoothing down the sharp lines of his goatee. "How much kine blood is in her system right now?" He asked. Helena frowned.

"None. Why?" She asked.

"Call it intuition," he answered. He glanced to Caldur, and made a quick gesture with his eyes. Obediently, Caldur pulled the assassin up roughly by the scruff of her neck. She rose, unresisting. Sebastian looked into her dull, languid eyes. Like the rest of her, they too were devoid of any colour. She met his gaze only because she was all but forced to.

"Assassin, will you speak on your own behalf?" He asked again. She just looked at him with an expression that could only be called hopeless. She opened her mouth, as if to speak, but no sound came out. Instead, she looked racked with pain. He nodded.

"You can't, can you?" He asked. She looked like she was swallowing a lump in her throat. She closed her mouth, and shook her head. Sebastian nodded.

"I see," he said. "You're under orders not to. Let's try a different tack. How old are you, assassin?"

Her jaw worked, forcing the words out. They came out in tiny breaths, weak, and distant. "Th… thirty seven," she managed. Sebastian shook his head.

"No, no. How old-how long have you been dead?" He asked.

"I… don't… know," she answered. It seemed very hard for her to speak at all. Like something was preventing her. Sebastian reached towards her, with a single outstretched finger. The tip of it made contact with her brow, and stroked across the lack of hair there. The assassin began to scream.

Everyone in the room flinched, except for Sebastian. She screamed, a sound that could curdle blood. As if Sebastian's very touch had burned her. She screamed like a banshee, wailing uselessly against the already undead audience. Mike covered his ears, Caldur shied away from it, still holding fast to her neck. And Helena doubled over in pain. Patricia winced, and bent to help Helena. But Sebastian simply looked at the assassin with frustrated interest. He removed his finger, and the sound abruptly stopped.

"Well," he said thoughtfully. "At least we know your voice does, in fact, work."

From the ground, on her hands and knees, Helena panted. Sebastian turned to her.

"And what did you see then?" He asked. She didn't make any move to answer for a time. Still getting her bearings. Still recovering. Eventually, she sat back, and clutched at her heart. "Do you understand now why I am taking the time?" Asked Sebastian. Helena nodded, mutely. She looked sad. And distant. She let Patricia help her to her feet, but her movements were much more subdued than before. She didn't have the annoyance, or rage she had come into the room with.

Sebastian turned back to the assassin.

"Do you have a name?" He asked. She shook her head. "A designation?" He tried. The assassin strained. She looked like she was trying to answer. She was trying so hard, she nearly gagged at the word. It was so stuck, so deep inside her that it was dredging up the contents of her stomach with it.

"J," she choked.

"Jay," repeated Sebastian. He nodded, seemingly satisfied. He turned to Mike expectantly.

"My lord," said Mike, springing to action suddenly. "I would start by weaning her off her current blood bond, and replacing it with one of my own," he said. "And teach her about our ways. Once that's done-"

"Once that's done, you will return her to me for another assessment. Do not become attached," warned Sebastian. Mike smiled. He looked far too smug.

"Of course, my lord. As you say."


	20. 20 - White Lions

Jay's information had checked out. She'd told them to look into the Toronto zoo, and sure enough, that was the missing link they'd needed. In retrospect, the answer had been so obvious. It had been right in front of them all along. It had been hidden in press releases, baby announcements, and droll, uninteresting news. After all, what appeal did a zoo that closed well before sunset hold for a Kindred? But the insidious influence of the Sabbat could be pointed out in two simple words. Words no one had thought to look for or notice.

White lions.

In 1996, there had been just one white lioness in Torotnto's zoo. But she was replaced by three more in 2012. White lions are the result of a rare genetic mutation, not albinism, but the expression of a similar recessive gene. While it's rare in the overall scheme of lions, their presence in captivity was quite common. Popular belief held that a white lion couldn't survive in the wild. That claim has since been refuted, but that doesn't stop them from being a popular choice for captivity. In the Toronto zoo, as recently as 2015, there had been cubs born. A flurry of cute photos had been circulated online, the zoo had received a visitation boom briefly, and then the little kittens had quietly faded to monotony in the night to night lives of those in Toronto. Entirely forgotten about by the Kindred who resided there.

And yet, they'd stayed there the whole time. Quietly cluing in anyone who was clever enough to notice. Even though one one had been until now. When Jay had brought this to their attention, Sebastian ordered a thorough investigation. If it was even _remotely_ possible that the Sabbat could be operating _inside_ Toronto city limits, Sebastian wanted that clamped down on. Immediately. Which was exactly what they were doing.

"When was the last time we broke into a zoo?" Laughed Helena the three of them bypassed the traffic stops. Caldur chuckled.

"Vancouver," he replied. Helena laughed.

"Oh god, that's right," she said. "I had to spend _forever_ convincing reporters it was a windstorm."

"I don't think you're taking this entirely seriously…" said Patricia, a little nauseated. Caldur ruffled her hair affectionately.

"First time break ins are always the hardest," he said. "You'll loosen up."

"There's no need to be patronizing," mutter Patricia. "Aren't we in here to look for maniacal killers who sent an assassin to a party?"

"We can reminisce while we look for clues," said Helena jovially. "Look, so far so good. We're not likely to find anything here, anyway."

"What makes you so sure?" Asked Patricia. "You said yourself that Jay was telling the truth."

"It might have been telling what it knew to be the truth," sneered Helena. Caldur shot Helena a _look_ at her particular pronoun use, but she either didn't notice, or chose to ignore it. "But anyone who actually told their disposable assassin where to find them is a crazy idiot. Smart money's on this being a waste of time, but a fun little outing," said Helena.

"Most of them are," agreed Caldur. Patricia wasn't convinced.

"Then why are we even here?" She grumbled.

"Wow, you're shirking due diligence?" Chided Caldur. Patricia stammered indignantly, no actual _words_ coming to her defence, but a whole lot of _very_ disgruntled sounds. "Hah, calm down there, kid, you might hurt yourself."

"And they call _me_ the crazy one…" she grumbled. "He really sent his best and brightest. The insane, the blind, and the whatever you are."

"I'm _perfect_," assured Caldur.

"Perfectly foolish," said Helena, jabbing Caldur in the ribs.

The banter continued as they meandered down the winding roads of the Toronto zoo. Patricia zoned out for most of it, not seeing the relevance. She tried to focus her attentions on the investigative factor. To keep her grounded. Once past the parking lots, the paths changed from asphalt to paving stones. The walkways opened up into a thoroughfare, with benches, a few planted trees, a little ticket booth, and in the center a merry go round.

Patricia looked at it with a small smile. A teal peaked top, perched on its tip was some sort of vulture. A menagerie of depictions of animals decorated the rim. The animals that visitors could ride were more exotic than the standard fare of bobbing horses. Aside from the wicker baskets meant for those who didn't really want to do more than placate someone else, there were a whole host of choices. From a gator, to a cheetah, to a dolphin. Patricia almost heard the residual laughter of small children riding, or squabbling over their favourites. With a twinge, she suddenly realized she didn't know when the last time she saw a child had been.

She stepped a little closer, drawn in by the frivolity of it all. Something made for the entertainment of young human beings. Something she might never get to really interact with again. Behind the animals, on the central column, were several square frames with bulb after bulb of yellow lights around them.

Patricia stopped dead. Mirrors, she noticed. She backed up a few paces, and looked over her shoulder. Helena and Caldur were watching her silently, amusement evident on their faces.

"It wouldn't be the most _professional_ thing," said Caldur with a grin. "But I bet I could get it running if you wanted a ride." Patricia's face would have flushed, had she been human.

"N-no, _thank_ you," she stammered. She was still backing away from it, as if it might start chasing her. Thankfully it was dark. Thankfully she hadn't been close enough. Thankfully the mirrors had been angled downward. _Thankfully._

"The giant scorpion isn't going to get you," sniggered Helena.

"Th-that's not-Ugh, can we just get on with this, quote unquote, waste of time?" Snapped Patricia, rejoining the others. They continued to laugh at her expense, but turned and made their way deeper in.

Following the paintings of comically large animal prints down the path, past a sign for camel rides. The haunting silence of Splash Island while it wasn't running any of its water, ceramic orcas caught frozen in their moment of play. It was strange to think that Patricia could never come to a place like this while it ran again. Strange to remember all the things that had been taken from her. This was a place designed to have children playing, laughing, screaming… When was the last time she had even seen a child?

They passed by exhibit after exhibit. Caldur and Helena, true to their experience, showed Patricia how to navigate around security. Whether by knowing how to trick motion detectors, being able to tell where the cameras were, or when to hide from security foot patrols. They masterfully navigated that aspect, then went back to teasing each other - and her - mercilessly.

Finally, passing one of the covered "zoomobile" stations labeled "Africa" in proud, bold red letters, they were at the lion exhibit. The conversation seemed to die down slightly as they embarked on the visitor path. A few yards in, and Helena stopped. She clicked her tongue thoughtfully, and tilted her head.

"Well I'll be damned," she said.

"What you got?" Asked Caldur.

"Not sure," mumbled Helena. She reached forward and laced her fingers through the chain link fence beside her. She closed her eyes, concentrating, and gripped tightly. Her brow twitched, and furrowed as she seemed to be watching a movie going on inside her own head. Her lips twitched with unsaid words, and she looked like she was straining to listen. Patricia watched her for a moment, confused. Then she turned that confusion onto Caldur, who was surveying the area with keep focus.

"What's she doing?" Asked Patricia in a whisper, worried she might disturb Helena.

"Auspex," murmured Caldur.

"That super hearing thing?" Asked Patricia. Caldur nodded.

"It's more than that. And this is her own sort of mix of skills. No one in the world is as thorough of a master of the discipline as Helena. There's a reason she gets around so well even though she's blind."

"So is she… looking inside?"

"I don't know exactly how it works. But she's finding out more."

"Wow. Sebastian really did send his best and brightest…"

"And you," added Caldur with a laugh. Patricia glared at him, but he just smiled. "Don't worry, I'll keep you safe," he laughed.

"I hate you."

"Will you two shut up?" Said Helena.

"Sorry," both of them replied automatically. Hellena glared in their general direction, but went back to what she was doing. Caldur led them a short distance away. Patricia watched quietly. Helena's brow twitched in the way that happens in movies when a character is telepathically recieving tons of information. Or an android is making a massive download. Patricia looked up at Caldur curiously, but he just shrugged, and set his eyes to the horizon, alert for danger.

"Why am I even here?" She asked Caldur in a low tone. Caldur didn't take his eye of their surroundings, but his face made it clear he was listening to her. "I mean… I'm just getting in the way," she mumbled.

"You have to get in the way a few times, or you won't know how to stay out of it," replied Caldur.

"So it's that simple, is it?" Asked Patricia. "Just trial by fire?"

"Think of it more like a shakedown," said Caldur amiably. "You're young. You're fresh. Sebastian thinks you'll be an asset eventually. But to figure out how to _make_ you an asset, we need to see you in action."

"_What_ action?" hissed Patricia. "I'm tagging along on a trip to the bloody _zoo_," she said, throwing her hands out to illustrate her point.

"Somebody had to do it," answered Caldur midly.

"And you and Helena _are_ doing it."

"Well, it's not like we could send you here alone. God, for someone so sharp, you're awful dense sometimes."

Before Patricia could mount her indignant response, Helena opened her eyes.

"Hrmmm," she said loudly, and and length. Caldur made his way back over.

"What we got?" He asked.

"Nobody home," said Helena. "No Kindred or Kine, anyway. A couple of animals, I think. It's a little murky."

"So we check it out?" Asked Caldur.

"Step lightly, though."

"I always do. Come on, newbie. You're with me."

Patricia glowered, but followed where she was bid. Helena sat neatly on the ground, legs folded under her, and closed her eyes again.. Patricia opened her mouth to ask about that, but Caldur was already trotting away, and she had to dash to keep up with him.

He led her to the outer wall of a small shack. From afar, it looked hardly suspicious; a shed to hold whatever tools it is that a zoo keeper needs access to regulalry. But as Patricia got closer, it became immediately apparent that this was more than it seemed. For one thing, it seemed to have a basement.

"The ground," murmured Patricia to Caldur. He answered her with a questioning look. She pointed around the shack. "It's artificially flat here. The rest of this enclosure is naturally curved. But here…" she said. "There's a structure under here."

"Well spotted," smiled Caldur. "Let's lett ourselves in, shall we?" He asked. They circled their way to the door of the little building. It had heavy chains, and a padlock on the front. "Hm, don't suppose you can pick a lock?"

"I… Uh…"

"Didn't think so. No worries," he said. He grasped the padlock, and ripped it open. Patricia gawked. Half inch thick steel popped open like a can of soda.

"Remind me not to arm wrestle you…" she breathed.

Caldur grinned, and opened up the little shack. Inside was exactly what one would expect. Rakes, hoes, shovels, hoses, gloves, and a pleothora of things Patricia couldn't readily identify, but seemed to fit the right aesthetic. Caldur began knocking on the ground, listening for hollows. About five feet in, he found one. He looked up at Patricia, and grinned.

"Stand back," he warned. Warily, Patricia took a few steps away from him. He reached his fist back, and pounded on the ground.

The sound of impact was brutally loud, and scraps of wood and stone flew everywhere. The ground caved under Caldur's assault, no match for his brawn. Some stone ran out of its holding, and clattered on the ground below.

"I bet there was an entrance that would have opened more easily," said Patricia.

"And I bet we would have had to look for it."

"We could have had Helena look for it…"

"See? This is why you're here," said Caldur proudly. "You could have, you know, said that a little sooner."

"I didn't realize you were going to murder the floor."

"That's probably something you should always expect."

"It's a wonder Sebastian ever lets you in his office."

"Hey! I would never murder Sebastian's floor unless he _asked _me to."

"Whatever. Are you going in, or not?"

"Hang on," siad Caldur, scooping up a small stone that had come free when he broke the boards. He dropped it down the shaft, and listened. It took exactly [X] seconds to hear back from it.

"Thirty feet," said Patricia. Caldur looked up at her incredulously. Then he shrugged.

"Just about," he replied. He ripped up a little more of the floor to make a bigger hole, breaking through the hard wood and concrete like it was styrofoam. Then he hopped down. A soft 'thud' heralded his arrival.

"Now you," he called up.

"How are we going to get _back_ out?" Asked Patricia dubiously.

"Like you said, there's another way into this joint."

"But we haven't found it. And we're not certain there is."

"Worst case, we'll jump."

"_Thirty feet?!_"

"Well, I'll throw you. Whatever. Would you just come _down_ here?"

"I…"

"I'll catch you, no worries."

"Right," sighed Patricia. "No worries. None at all. We're delving into a secret dungeon of possibly Sabbat origin, with no exit strategy, and a lethal fall entrance. Nope, can't think of a _single_ way _this_ could go wrong…"

"You think too much. Just jump!"

"Ooooh, man. Here goes."

And Patricia descended into the darkness. She landed roughly into Caldur's waiting arms. He grinned at her, held bridal style.

"You can definitely put me down now," she said. "I do have feet."

Caldur rolled his eyes, and set her down. Patricia looked around. It was quite dark, hard to see. She squinted into the black, the corridor they'd broken their way into extending off in two directions. She looked up at the ceiling, barely any light coming down through it.

"I don't suppose you brought a flashlight?" Muttered Patricia, pulling out her cellphone to illuminate the area.

"Aren't you supposed to have some spooky Malk sight?" He asked jokingly.

"Isn't someone supposed to _teach_ me spooky Malk sight?" She retorted, getting grumpier by the minute.

"Sheesh. Just asking. Well, squirt, left or right?" Asked Caldur.

"No insight on either direction?" Asked Patricia.

"You're the one with Insight."

Patricia stared at him drolly. She was getting tired of this. Tired of his cavalier approach to this whole thing. She had no doubt he could handle this, and was just as capable as everyone seemed to believe. That didn't make him any less aggravating to deal with in the meantime.

"In a labyrinth, always go left," she said finally."

"Great. I'll lead the way," he said, snatching her cellphone out of her hand.

"Hey!"

"What, you about to make a pressing call?"

"Don't you have your _own_ phone?" Grumbled Patricia. "It's considered _rude_ to take away a device that holds a huge amount of someone's personal data."

"It's considered _foolish_ to wave something with sensitive information on it around in front of someone who can take it from you."

"Is this like that zen thing where one monk challenges someone else to steal the pebbles from the other monk's hands?" Asked Patricia. "Only… in… reverse, or something."

"No, just a practical lesson in 'I'm faster than you,'" answered Caldur.

"Of course you're faster than I am. You're Caldur Fable. Celerity master."

"You've been doing your homework, I see," answered Caldur, mockingly proud.

"Not like there's much _else_ for me to do," sneered Patricia. "No eating, no drinking, no daytime activities. I'm trapped like Rapunzel in a tower most nights, and other nights trapped in..." Said Patricia, trailing off. She shuddered at the last. "...Somewhere else."

Caldur paused for a moment, still leading them down the darkened corridor. Up ahead, about fifty feet, there was a concrete wall, with a large bunker door attached. Still, though, Caldur's eyes were on Patricia, a little sad.

"What did you used to do?" Asked Caldur.

"Forget I brought it up…" she sighed.

"Sorry, my memory's pretty damn great. Hard to forget."

"Look, can we… Can we not?" Asked Patricia. "Can we just look into this mystery dungeon, and not talk about my former personal life while in enemy territory?" Caldur weighed her words, and let out a small click.

"All right," he said grudgingly. "A fair enough request. Might still be baddies around anyway so silence would suit our little mission better, I guess."

They walked up to the bunker door. It was a massive thing, with a large metal wheel on the front. Five spokes bloomed from its center like a star, chipped red paint on it. The door itself had heavy rivets, and rust cascading down its face.

"How long do you think this has been here?" Asked Patricia, reaching a hand out to touch the door. She flinched away from it before she made contact, though, just a little scared to actually touch it. Caldur handed her phone back to her, eyes on the wheel as he did so. She did a brief sweep with the light for anything interesting, then held it so that Caldur could see the wheel.

"Looks like eighty years, give or take, I'd say," said Caldur. "Probably not originally for the purpose of housing Cainites. But possibly. Toronto was Sabbat territory a long time ago, after all." He wrapped his fingers firmly around the wheel, and gave it a firm tug to turn it. It resisted at first, but with a grinding groan, finally gave way.

"You and Sebastian keep using that word…"

"What, Cainite?" Asked Caldur.

"Yeah. What's it mean?"

"Well, official Camarilla lingo basical says it means not much. But Cainites are kinda what they sound like; those who come from Caine."

"Biblical Caine? Cursed by god, Caine?"

"Caine and Abel, yup. You got that on the first try. You're just full of surprises."

"I… read a lot in high school."

"Yeah, I bet. Anyway, Cam doctrine says Caine is one of those creation myths, not actually a real dude. Sabbat see it differently. They don't really use the word Kindred, we don't really use the word Cainite. But, well, Sebastian's rubbed off on me."

"Sebastian believes in Caine?" Asked Patricia. Caldur leaned on the door a moment, thinking about his answer.

"I'm not sure if Sebastian really believes in Caine per se," he admitted. "But from what I gather, his Sire did. Sebastian believes in stopping the Antediluvians, though, which isn't a really popular stance at Camarilla parties, them being part of the creation myth the Cam wants to sweep under the rug."

"Antediluvians?"

"They're like… Well, if Caine is generation one, the Antediluvians are generation three," explained Caldur. "Big deal. Very powerful. You know, assuming they're real. Malkav, the guy who supposedly gifted you insanity, he's one of the bunch. Each clan has their own, theoretically. They're the founders of all the Kindred bloodlines." Caldur shrugged, and began shoving the bunker door open. "So the, unf, story goes, anyway."

As soon as the door was open even a fraction, the smell of rot assaulted their senses. Patricia covered her mouth and nose, more out of a couple decades of habit than out of any real need to. She could have stopped breathing, of course, but it was hard to remember that as quickly.

"Ugh…" said Caldur. "We might be in the right place."

The stench continued as they delved further into the compound. Patricia strained her ears to listen. The walls fell away into a large opening. But this room was empty, like some sort of massive airlock, or antichamber. There was another massive doorway up ahead, but it seemed the door which was supposed to be housed there was missing. Instead there was simply a flap of leather hanging in its way. Nothing else of interest seemed to be in the room. Patricia couldn't help but stand a little closer to Caldur.

"This place gives me the creeps. Why is it we didn't bring Helena with us?" She whispered.

"Bad experience with Fiends," answered Caldur, in the same low tones. He reached out for the leather flap, and recoiled when he touched it. "_Ugh_," he said.

"What?" Asked Patricia, alarmed.

"That's not…" began Caldur. He sighed heavily, and yanked the flap aside. "That's definitely human skin," he finished. "Absolutely the right place."

With newfound horror, Patircia looked at the curtain the two of them were passing under. Dark, thin, translucent. And yes, it did have the distinct texture of flesh. There were even a few freckles and moles. Patricia shuddered.

But if that had unsettled her, what she was next absolutely blew her out of the water. Up, high on the walls, displayed like someone else might display their amateaur paintings, were monstrosities. Patricia covered her mouth, and Caldur just stared on in tight jawed rage. Maybe these creations had been human once. Maybe they had been some other creature recognizable as part of the real world. But what she saw before here defied all manner of decency.

Bones on the outside of the body. Arms replaced with spinal cords. Hands replaced with suckers, or claws, or mouths of other creatures. Ribcaged splayed open like cabinet drawers. Veins pulled exterior so that the blood pumping through the creature could be seen. The blood pumping through the creatures...

"Dear god," said Patricia. "They're still _alive_…"

"Be horrified later," said Caldur through his teeth. But he, too, was staring up darkly at the abominations on the walls. "We're looking for clues right now." Patricia felt like she was going to be sick.

"Clues," she said hoarsely, tearing her eyes away and levelling them at her own feet. "Clues she said again." Caldur hadn't moved an inch. Patricia laced her fingers together, fiddling with them, and wringing her hands. Clues, she thought to herself. Pull it together. What else was in the room. Give yourself a blindspot for the _installation pieces_, and _look_.

Rafters. The fans up top for ventilation, all dusty and in disrepair. Each one with five tilted blades. Seven rows of beams on the ceiling going one way, six going the other. Six heavy, concrete columns holding it all up off the ground. In the middle of the room was an altar. Or perhaps a work bench. It might have been difficult to discern the difference, given the subject matters. It was smeared with rotten blood, entrails, and bodily fluid of all descriptions.

"After we're through here, this place needs to be _burned_," said Patricia, fighting the urge to gag.

"I'm right with you," agreed Caldur. The two of them cautiously made their way closer to the workbench. On the far wall, now that they were closer, there was a large box.

"Is that an _actual_ coffin?" Asked Patricia dubiously.

"The Tzimisce are nothing if not traditionalists," sneered Caldur. "Looks like it's still got some of the dirt from around it. We'll want that," he said, motioning for her to go and fetch it.

"It's been swept up pretty well," she remarked. But still she pulled out an evidence bag, and grabbed up what she could. "So, we know the Tzimisce were here. At least one."

"Two, if you count the guest in our prison," answered Caldur. He'd pulled out his switchblade, and was poking his way through some of the less savoury piles with a disgusted look on his face.

"So much for Toronto's white lions…" muttered Patricia. She stowed the evidence bag in her breast pocket, and stood to inspect the coffin. "Here's hoping whoever was here left something for us to find."

She opened it up. It seemed a strange thing to leave behind, but maybe they left in a hurry. It was made of very fine oak, with rich, red satin on the inside. If it weren't so morbid, it might have been quite comfortable. Patricia sniffed it. It smelled of roses, even over the other, less savoury scents of the room.'

Between the boards of the coffin's wall, and it's top, there were a couple small scraps of paper. When Patricia reached for them, she discovered they were photo paper. She pulled another evidence bag, and pried them out of their housing. They were really wedged in there, so it took some doing. But when she finally ripped them free, a false wall fell open behind them, and a ring fell out. Patricia bend down to pick it up.

A large, heavy signet ring, made distinctly of silver. It depicted a bat, flying to the side, and had latin writing surrounding it. She'd seen this somewhere before.

"Caldur," she said urgently. "Look at this."

"What?"

"Doesn't this look familiar?" She asked, handing him the ring.

"It looks just like Sebastian's…" he breathed.

"I suspect he'll know whose it is, then."

"Yeah. Come on," said Calur, sneering around the room one last time. "We're done here."

…

"So much for fieldwork," laughed Caldur.

"Cut her some slack, it was her first time out," chided Helena. She nudged Patricia in the ribs playfully. Caldur chuckled.

"She's right. You did good, kiddo," he admitted. Patricia was unmoved by this reassurance.


End file.
